


A Wild Night and a New Road

by PlayerPiano



Category: Corpse Bride (2005)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 17:14:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 51,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20362129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlayerPiano/pseuds/PlayerPiano
Summary: As the song says, we all end up the remains of the day.  The lives, deaths, and afterlives of some of the Land of the Dead's notable citizens.





	1. Elder Gutknecht

**Elder Gutknecht**

In winter the dark came on early, and deepened quickly. A recent storm, the first of the season, had left a blanket of snow deep enough to nearly cover the headstones in the churchyard.

A pair of lit candles sat on the small table, and a tiny fire crackled in the grate. Pastor Gutknecht huddled down in his chair, a well-worn book on his lap. Most of his time was passed in this fashion of late. In his little cell in his little stone church, with only the fire, the view of the graveyard, and his volumes of ancient lore and religious history to keep him company.

For the past few days he'd been turning again and again to the little leather Bible that his mother had given him nearly a century before, when he had left his home village for this one. And again and again he would turn the brittle pages to Ecclesiastes. Always that, lately. It gave him comfort. And hope. _For him who is joined to all the living, there is hope..._

Not that Pastor Gutknecht had felt all that joined to his fellow man for the past year or so. Age had withered him, slowed him more than he liked. The pastor had had the pleasure and responsibility of caring for the people of this little village for nearly eighty years. He had christened them, married them, buried them, counseled them in times of need, celebrated with them in times of joy, married more and then christened more.

Every week he had delivered sermons, messages of, he hoped, wisdom and compassion. Though each Sunday the pews were full, Pastor Gutknecht remained uncertain about whether his villagers came for the sake of God or for the sake of fellowship. Or even, perhaps, for his sake. Not that it truly mattered, he supposed, so long as they heard the Word, were good to one another, and were able to lead joyful lives. Gutknecht missed giving sermons most of all. He had not had the strength to do so for many weeks.

Dearly he hoped his villagers did not think he had forgotten them. He ached to see them all. To ask after their lives, see the new children, hear their problems and to help them. To guide them, as a pastor should. But he was simply unable. It was all he could do to sit through young Pastor Galswells' sermons each week, and not only because of the content. For the past few Sundays he had not attended, much to his shame. He had been much too weak and tired. Instead he had been here, in his chair in his dim cell, reading and reflecting and praying. Losing himself in his mind, in his spirit, trying to forget the flesh and all that went with it.

_Vanity of vanities...One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh, but the earth abideth for ever..._

A flutter at the window pulled his attention. Gutknecht looked up, squinted, and smiled. A raven sat on the sill, peering in at him.

Coughing and ignoring the pain it brought, Gutknecht stood with difficulty. Aided by his gnarled walking stick, he made his slow, stooped way to the window, which he unlatched and pushed open. With a flirt and a flutter in the raven stepped, shaking snow from his wings.

"Mordechai," said Gutknecht, shutting the window behind the bird. "Wonderful to see you, my friend."

The raven croaked and gently nipped one of Gutknecht's gnarled fingers in greeting, then fluttered his way to his usual perch on the back of the chair. Gutknecht wished he had a little something for the bird, some scrap left from the last meal that Galswells' wife had brought for him earlier in the day. Ever since he was a young man he'd kept birds. Ravens were plentiful in this village, and Gutknecht had kept several special ones over the years. Intelligent, they were, if misunderstood. Many disliked them due to their association with death, but that association never bothered Gutknecht.

Exhausted by even the short walk across the room, he settled into his chair again. He breathed deeply, slowly, closing his eyes and listening to his heart beat. For over ninety years it had been going, on and on. But it was slower lately.

"It is good to have company," Gutknecht remarked to Mordechai, who was preening his feathers and croaking to himself on the back of the chair. "'Two are better than one, for if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow. Woe to him that is alone when he falleth.' But I've told you that before, surely."

Mordechai made a little sound, one that Gutknecht always considered a chirp. So far as ravens could chirp. With another soul in the room, the evening seemed brighter, warmer. Gutknecht opened his Bible to where he'd left off, words he knew so well he hardly had need to read them: _Man hath no better thing under the sun, than to eat, and to drink, and to be merry: for that shall abide with him of his labour the days of his life..._

A knock at the door roused him from a doze he hadn't been aware he'd slipped into. With a caw Mordechai hopped onto the armrest, and Gutknecht lifted a finger to reassuringly stroke his head. After Gutknecht called a greeting, the door opened to reveal young Pastor Galswells.

He was tall and angular with a deep thundering voice. Though he could not have been much older than twenty-five, Galswells carried himself with the pomp and authority of age. This evening visit was a ritual Gutknecht looked forward to—Galswells would tell him of the village, of the care of the church, of the plans for services. Gutknecht would have been lost, unmoored, without this link to the world that he loved and missed. Tonight, as ever, he listened eagerly to all of the news.

"The Van Dorts have had a son," Galswells informed him at length. Gutknecht smiled. Children were always good news.

"The fish merchants, yes? What have they called him?"

"The official christening is tomorrow," replied Galswells. "But I believe they have decided upon William."

Gutknecht nodded approvingly. The Van Dorts were good people, an old family in the village. In fact, he had known the first William Van Dort, a fisherman who had been elderly when Gutknecht had first come to the village. Mr. Van Dort's funeral had been the first service Gutknecht had ever conducted. And now his namesake's christening might be the last.

"I think I should like to conduct the christening," Gutknecht said after some reflection. Galswells sighed, fixing him with a look of tired patience. Gutknecht added, "It's been so very long since there has been a new child in the village. Not since your son was born, my boy...three years ago?"

Galswells did not reply, but continued to regard Gutknecht with that quietly exasperated expression. While it was true that Gutknecht would dearly love to hold a child again, to say a prayer for him, there was more to his desire than that. In truth, he did not want Galswells' particular brand of godliness to be the first the infant encountered. Over the past weeks, when Galswells had delivered the sermons, he had noticed the themes. Fear, punishment, judgment, sin and retribution. Hopelessness.

Oh, Gutknecht himself had gone through his own Puritanical phase, fresh from Wittgenstein and knowing all about scripture but nothing of human experience. Yet somehow Gutknecht was sure that the young Pastor Galswells was not merely going through a phase. He would always treat the villagers like wayward children. Doomed and wicked ones.

"Your honor, you are hardly strong enough to conduct a service," Galswells told him, speaking as one would to a child.

"I married the Wadleighs this past autumn," replied Gutknecht, stroking his long white beard and twirling it round his fingers. He remembered clearly, so pleased had he been to be of service again regardless of the circumstances. The pair of them, Alfred and Gertrude, standing before him in his cell in the very early morning, mist still rising over the gravestones in the churchyard. Mordechai perched atop the bookcase, he and young Master Wadleigh's coachman the only witnesses. They had looked so young, so very happy. So clearly in love with one another.

"You helped them elope," corrected Galswells, an edge to his tone. "That is not the same thing."

The gall of this young man. Pastor Gutknecht had no great love for being treated as though he were a schoolboy caught stealing apples. While it was true, he had married the pair of them in secret, and both families were still angry with him because of it. Or so he heard. Gertrude Elvstead, a girl he had christened and watched grow up, had come to him in the middle of the night, had explained her situation and had pleaded for counsel regarding her unfortunate and all too common situation. And Gutknecht had given it.

"We have so little time," Gutknecht finally said, his voice low as he repeated, more or less, just what he'd said to Miss Gertrude. "Our portion is small, and it is full already of trial. Why spend our lives desperately unhappy? What is the purpose?"

"The purpose," Galswells said, his deep voice rumbling, "is duty. Responsibility and moral duty. Upholding the social order and keeping our community together. Those are what we must do for our flock as well, your honor, just as much as anything else."

"Moral duty," repeated Gutknecht, remembering the look on young Miss Elvstead's face when she'd come to him, pleading for his help.

Galswells continued as though Gutknecht had not spoken. "We do not deserve happiness, we poor sinners. We must strive to live correctly, righteously, so that we may enjoy everlasting life. Rewards in heaven."

"Why not enjoy the life we're certain of, Pastor Galswells, rather than counting on the unknown?"

The question gave the younger man pause. "Your honor," he said slowly. "That sounds quite close to blasphemy."

Gutknecht was silent.

"You sound quite unconcerned for—and forgive me, your honor—a man who might soon meet his Maker," said Galswells, looking at him closely.

"I am not altogether concerned," admitted Gutknecht, exhausted and ready to be shut of this conversation. "And perhaps there is no Maker to meet."

Galswells' stunned silence seemed to fill the room. Gutknecht closed his eyes, held a cold hand up to his face. He was tired, that was all. Not thinking. He had not meant to say that aloud. The silence stretched, deepened, the only sound the crackling of the fire and Mordechai's occasional chirp.

_Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter: Fear God, and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of man. _When had he ceased to be afraid?

Not long after that, Galswells left. The fire in the cell had burned all the way down, the candles nearly out. Gutknecht, feeling his exhaustion deep in his bones, closed his eyes and bowed his head, praying for understanding.

0—0

Something profound had happened.

Instead of yellow candlelight, there was silvery moonshine. Though after a moment he realized the moon was nowhere to be seen. And he felt a lightness, an ease which he hadn't known in decades. No weight on his shoulders. He was nowhere, but he was also everywhere.

Gutknecht took a breath that wasn't really a breath at all. Again he felt that weightlessness, a pull, the silvery light all around him and all within him.

Somehow he knew that he could keep going. If he were to let go, if he were to let out one more airless breath, he could go farther. Release. Freedom. After nearly a century in flesh, he could be pure spirit.

The light. We come from the light, we go back to the light. And that was all. Perhaps there was no Maker but this, no Judgment but one's own.

But then, something strange. Once more his thoughts took coherent form. Faces of his friends and neighbors, his flock, those who had depended on him, became clear as day and mixed with the moonshine. A deep, vital part of him longed for the light, for the heightened oblivion, but something held him back. Those faces.

Even in death, they were with him. He'd helped so many on their way here. There would always be more to follow. Gutknecht could not bear to leave them completely. Something still felt unfinished.

When he opened his eyes again, he was aware that he was truly opening his eyes. He had form. And so did this place. It was a square, much like the one he had left behind. There was no one about, but he could feel presences everywhere, other souls. The silvery light was gone, but that feeling of being pure, of being insubstantial and yet complete, remained. Gutknecht knew he would never forget that feeling, no matter how long he chose to remain here.

_All go unto one place. All are of the dust, and all turn to dust again._

But he was not dust. Not yet. And so he began to walk.

Gutknecht had read of cities of the dead in folklore. This, though, seemed a village of the dead, one very like the one he had left. The narrow streets, the lopsided houses, the brick and stone. Similar enough to offer a measure of comfort to the recently departed, it seemed, but different. Oh, it was very different.

Earth instead of sky. Coffins propped open in alleyways. Green light in the windows. So many colors, he'd never seen the like, not even on the most vibrant summer flowers. The longer he strolled, the more calm he became. The more certain that his choice had been the right one. That core of his being, the same one that was part of the light and longed for the light, told him so.

Perhaps it was that inner light that led him to a rickety old tower near the edge of the city of the dead. At the top of a set of stairs there was a garret.

"It cannot be hell," he mused, looking around. "There are far too many books."

Gutknecht walked along the shelves, observed the piles upon piles of books upon the floor. Someone had been here, and recently. From the exposed rafters came familiar flutters and croaks. Ravens. Of course. Again Gutknecht was sure the birds were another sign that he had done what was right, and that there was no punishment forthcoming. Up a narrow flight of stairs he went, painlessly, and without becoming winded or dizzy. He was beyond that now. Upon the desk there was an open volume, as though it had been waiting for him.

A Bible, thick and old and tattered. Open to Ecclesiastes. As if the garret's previous occupant had left it for him to find. Gutknecht ran a finger—blue-gray now in hue, he noticed—over the brittle page.

"'For the living know that they shall die,'" he read aloud. A raven fluttered down from the rafters and perched on a nearby tower of books. "'But the dead know not any thing, neither have they any more a reward, for the memory of them is forgotten.'"

The words, so familiar, took on quite a new meaning in his current circumstances. Gutknecht allowed himself a small smile, even going so far as to shake his head. He'd always enjoyed this particular passage. Eat, drink, be merry, live joyfully with wife and family, take joy in your little portion of life. It had always been comforting. Even more comforting to know that, for some, such earthly joys could continue after death.

"'For there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest,'" he finished from memory. He took a step back, took another look around the garret. Out of a little window he could see the dead in the streets that he had not seen earlier. Going about their afterlives with full knowledge that they were dead. Had they all come back from where he had? Or were they all waiting to go there?

Somehow Pastor Gutknecht thought it was the latter.

For though the Preacher had been very wise, he had also been alive. Gutknecht was here, in the grave, and saw that there still might be wisdom. Perhaps even hope. Hope that every soul could reach that place where he had been, the place that he had turned away from. Perhaps not heeding that call to the light was an unforgivable and ungodly act of ego. At the same time, he felt it was the right choice. He had dedicated his life to service, to being a shepherd to the people of his village. Why should death stop him?

There was eternal work for an Elder to do.


	2. Bonejangles and his Bone Boys

** Bonejangles and His Bone Boys **

Billy "Bowler" Morton tapped his foot in time to the fresh new tune running through his head. He held a newspaper page on his knee, quickly scratching down notes in the margins with a stub of pencil. Chords flew from his brain to his fingers to the paper, his foot tapping all the while. _Yeah, that's nice,_ he thought. Miles and miles above and beyond the hackneyed standards that he'd been playing lately. Sometime soon he'd snap, he'd beat someone with a fiddle, start singing dirty lyrics to _Ole Susanna _or something. But it paid the bills, this minstrel show stuff. Money in the bank for his own joint someday. Once he'd pulled himself together a bit, got settled. In Chicago, maybe, where he'd grown up and knew people. Or Philadelphia. New Orleans.

Someday. Today found him on a crowded sooty little train stopped at a little station in the podunk middle of nowhere, on the way to their next performance. Bowler'd lost track of where they were. London was behind them, Kiev was next week, and Amsterdam was a distant memory. Only one passenger got off the train here, the only one not affiliated with the show, a big-chinned white man about his age who'd been sitting in the seat in front of him. And who'd been acting like he was gonna get knifed or robbed or both the whole time. Kind of thing Bowler should've been _long _used to, learned to live with. But you never really did.

Bowler, square-jawed and broad and a favorite with the ladies, was a singer and songwriter. And he planned to make it big. For now he warmed up the crowds, sang songs, and tickled the occasional ivories in little joints, mostly dance halls and the odd bordello. Most recently was this jaunt with a huge minstrel show, traveling all around Europe for audiences who'd probably never even seen real black folks before. This was his first time out of the States.

Good timing, too. Not three days after Bowler and his fellow musicians had boarded ship to Europe, the whole damn city of Chicago had burned down. Lucky for him he didn't have much in the way of family or possessions to worry about. For Bowler, life was the business, his true love was music, and his musician friends were his family.

Just went to show how much he liked these pals of his. If his three best friends hadn't also been involved with this show, there was no way Bowler would've joined up. Minstrel shows were boring and dated, the music uninspired, and were going the way of the dodo. Given how talented and fresh his buddies were, Bowler was surprised they were willing to do this, no matter the pay. It all offended Bowler, truth be told. Play the banjo, stick to what people _think _you're all about, keep yourself down and right where they want you. Stuck in the past. The future had a whole new meaning and a whole new sound, and that sound was represented by pencil scratches on newsprint.

"Got a great new song," Bowler said, tipping back his hat as he turned to Zed, who was sitting beside him reading the bit of the newspaper Bowler hadn't nicked. Zed was short, stocky, and played a mean bass for a kid barely twenty-three. Bowler'd met him back home in Chicago, when they'd both been playing dance halls.

"You've always got a great new song," Zed replied, unimpressed. "Quit scribblin' on my newspaper, will you? Know how long it took me to find one that wasn't in foreign?"

"'Bout ten seconds," said Blood'n'Guts Murphy from across the aisle. Murphy was light-skinned with enormous hands and feet. Tall like nothing Bowler'd ever seen, and one of the best horn players Bowler had ever met. They'd first heard each other when they were doing olio spots for a melodrama right after the War. "That white guy who was sittin' in front of you left it when he got off."

"I was being rhetorical," said Zed, rolling his eyes. The youngest of them, Zed was also the touchiest. So the other men liked to give him a hard time.

"Ooh, fancy," said Blind Elzy from his seat next to Blood'n'Guts. Old Elzy was from Mississippi, a real nice guy, had a nice wife and some nice kids. Real good for them they'd made it North. Bowler had no idea if Elzy was actually blind or not behind those dark glasses he always wore. It was just part of his persona, right along with his kitten-on-the-keys style on the piano. "The boy's smart, ain't he? Forget the bass, we should send him to Wilberforce."

Everyone except Zed laughed. Bowler gave the kid a punch in the arm. With another chuckle he ripped off the bit of the newspaper he'd scribbled on, folded it and tucked it into his pocket, ignoring Zed's horrified protests.

"Here, I left this clean," Bowler said, handing over the rest of the paper. "Would you just look at that, society page for my fancy friend. Eligible ladies. Pick one and marry up, you could really make something of yourself. Hey, just look at her, ain't she a doll?"

He pointed to a photograph of a white girl about Zed's age. Even Blood'n'Guts leaned over to look. The picture was grainy, but it would've had to have been a lot worse to make the girl unattractive. She had big eyes, a full mouth, and a beautiful head of hair. Probably the prettiest girl for miles around. There was a round of approving nods.

"Nice, but not as pretty as my girl back home," Zed said as he took the page, tucked it back into the paper, and went back to his reading. Over his head Bowler and Blood'n'Guts shared an eyeroll. Though it was true, Zed's little sweetheart _was _pretty, and real sweet. Bowler knew very well, had in fact given her the time once or twice before she'd fallen for Zed. Not that the kid _knew _that. Bowler sure wasn't telling.

"He's a good, loyal boy, that one," Elzy remarked paternally. "Going places." Zed didn't reply, but he looked pleased.

A whistle sounded, and with a clatter and a jolt the train began to move, pulling away from the tiny station platform.

"We're _all _going places, Elzy," Bowler said, tipping his trademark hat. "Someday we four are gonna make it big. Get outta this minstrel show, get our own place...a club, maybe. A real one, not just a saloon. It'll be something, you wait."

"Yeah, we'll be waiting all right," Blood'n'Guts said, folding his long spidery hands in his lap. "Til doomsday. They let us play the music, they don't let us own the joints. Maybe in the next life, Billy."

Blood'n'Guts always was the cynical type. Got on Bowler's nerves a bit.

As the train picked up speed it got too noisy to talk, so Bowler leaned back and tipped his hat over his face. Relaxing, he let the tune he'd been dreaming up fill his mind, flowing into his whole self. _Yeah, nice_, he thought again. It was gonna be big, his music. Take that spanking new ragtime to a whole different place. Blind Elzy's muggy bone-deep old-time sound, fresh from the Delta...throw in Blood'n'Guts swinging _let the bon temps rollay _bayou flavor...Zed's thrumming Chicago soul...and his own charismatic growling voice, cultivated with plenty of whiskey and cigarillos. A whole new style for a whole new world.

Yeah. They'd make it one day, Bowler Morton and His...Somethin' Boys. Still working on the name.

Just then the train car gave an almighty heave to one side. Before he knew what was going on Bowler was thrown heavily to one side and hit the window, knocking his hat off and rattling his brains. He got another rattle when Zed crashed into him. Dazed, he straightened up as much as he could and held onto his bowler, feeling a trickle of wet warm blood running down his forehead into his eye. Damn, that'd hurt.

"What's going on?" he cried, trying to push Zed off of him. His question was lost in the hubbub. The entire car was panicking, everyone yelling and making a mad rush to the front of the jerking car. Wiping the blood out of his eye and trying to ignore the crying and the screaming and the praying and the way it felt as though his head was going to explode, he looked across the way for Murphy and Elzy.

No sign. Maybe they'd made it out some way, without getting trampled or smothered. One of the drummers had been stomped on a little ways up the aisle. Bowler looked away. He righted his hat and closed his eyes, one arm around a pale and shaking Zed. The car continued to rattle and wobble, making a truly hellacious racket.

But Bowler Morton was concentrating on the music. When the train jumped the track for good, when the whole car went tumbling down an incline, as he was flung from his seat and into the luggage rack, he was thinking of the music.

0—0

Next thing he knew he was walking down a little street, and for a second he thought he was in Bohemia again, where they'd done their second show of the tour. A pretty little village, this one looked a lot like it. On second glance, though, this one was a little...off. Crooked. Dark, like the whole sky had gone black. What light was there was weird and green and seemed to glow. There were open coffins propped up against the walls everywhere he looked. Weird, but then you never knew with these Europe types. Bowler might've gone on thinking he was just somewhere foreign if he hadn't caught a glimpse of himself in a window. The sight brought him up short.

He was a skeleton.

_Damn,_ he thought, taking in his reflection. Only one of his eyes remained, but it didn't seem necessary for sight anymore. He could see just fine. Could see how he wasn't quite down to all skeleton yet. Skin was still stretched over his skeleton frame, but only barely. Could hardly be called skin at all anymore. He'd burned up all crispy and black, like one of his first wife's forgotten roasts.

"Boiler must've gone. Ain't no way I survived that," he said, taking another look at his sad, sorry, charred self. At least he still had his hat. What a miracle.

Dead. Bowler Morton. Dead. And what a way to go. Instead of being angry he found himself grateful he didn't recall anything about getting roasted. As there didn't seem to be too much else to do, he kept walking.

Eventually he came to the little square, just like the ones he'd seen all during the tour in little towns. There were cobblestones and a statue and some folks milling around over by a little shop. Only all inside out and different. And the folks—the other dead folks, he had no trouble understanding—they were all blue.

_Not much trouble over what color you are down here_, he thought, nodding and tipping his bowler as two dead ladies walked by, nodding at him politely. Charred bits of his skin flaked off and dropped to the ground as he did so, but the ladies didn't mention it, just smiled and moved on. This wasn't much like any of the spirit worlds he'd heard of, not the fire and brimstone his old man had always talked about, and bearing little resemblance to the heaven Elzy rhapsodized on when he was drunk.

But Billy "Bowler" Morton was dead as dust. He knew it. And wasn't quite sure why he didn't really mind.

"Billy," came Zed's voice from beside him, "I don't think we survived that crash."

Bowler turned, intending to ask his smart young friend what on God's green earth gave him that outlandish idea. When he did, he saw that Zed was a lot shorter than usual. A second look revealed that only Zed's top half was there. It looked like Zed was sprouting up out of the square, a weird little monument to train accident victims.

"Damn, son," Bowler exclaimed, tilting his hat back and eyeing his friend there on the ground. "Where's the rest of you?" Zed jerked a thumb.

"On your other side," he replied. Bowler turned, and yes indeed, there stood Zed's legs and lower torso. Thank the Lord he had no need for his insides any longer, as most of them seemed to have disappeared.

"You think Elzy and Murphy made it?" Bowler asked as he hoisted Zed back together. A little wobbly, sure, but it'd do.

"Made it where?" asked Blood'n'Guts, who had appeared at the other side of the square and was coming toward them. He looked Bowler up and down, then Zed, and then gave himself the once-over, taking in the godawful gouge of a wound eaten into his side. "Oh, damn. You're kidding."

"It appears we've gone to that undiscovered country, boys," put in Blind Elzy from behind them. "Ain't half-bad, from what I've seen. I'll miss the kids and the old lady, though..."

Everyone turned to look. Elzy, vibrantly blue but otherwise looking not too banged up, was standing just inside a crooked little doorway across the square. Bowler noticed a simple sign hanging over the door. It looked like a tombstone and had a crude picture of a wine bottle with a skull-and-crossbones label painted on. Death had really improved Bowler's eyesight, and he could make out _"Ball and Socket Pub" _on the sign, in that old-timey writing everyone seemed to like so much in foreign parts. Could do with an update or two, move with the times a bit.

"I think my old ticker went the second we started to wobble," Elzy went on, adjusting his dark glasses as he leaned against the doorframe. "Don't remember anything past then. Next thing I knew I was in this little place—looks like New Orleans, a bit, don't it, Murphy?And praise Jesus, I can see again. It's a miracle!"

"You're not funny, Elzy," grumped Zed, wobbling around as he tried to keep his halves together.

"Settle down, kid," said Blood'n'Guts mildly. He and Bowler glanced at each other over Zed's head. The kid would probably have a bit of trouble making peace with this whole deal. Again, Bowler wondered why he wasn't troubled. Felt like just another place to be, another gig to play, nothing more profound than that. Bowler Morton had been in plenty of places, and had played plenty of gigs. And he'd long since stopped being bothered about much of anything.

An old hymn his mother had always liked ran through his mind just then, and Bowler grinned to himself, bits of lip crumbling and falling off in ashes as he did so. _Where's your sting, Death? Still waitin' on it, _he thought.

"Come on over here and see this little joint," Elzy called to them, waving them over. Bowler tipped his hat, picked up Zed's top half, and made his way over to the doorway with Blood'n'Guts behind him and Zed's legs bringing up the rear.

"Nice, huh?" said Elzy, leading them inside. "And the landlady's a peach, real friendly. Least I think she's the landlady, might be a cook...Here, let's get us a drink."

It was a little saloon. A club. Lights, bar, stage, pool table, piano, everything. Colors like he hadn't seen in all his life, not even at the gaudiest music halls. And yet, there wasn't a band. That same deep part of him that knew he was dead somehow knew that, too. This place needed some _sound_. For a stupid second, Bowler wondered if maybe this was heaven after all. His own joint, set right there like it'd been waiting for him.

"New arrivals!" came a cry from near the bar. Somebody was ringing a dinner bell for all they were worth. More colored lights were lit. Every corpse in the place turned to the fresh group by the doorway and cheered, hoisting their glasses. There was a sense of camaraderie here that you only got with folks who'd been through something big, all the same and all together. All equals.

All that was missing was the music.

Billy "Bowler" Morton, who would have to think of a new stage name to suit his new hip joint, turned to his band-mates. His very self might've gone up in flames, but he still had that whole new sound thrumming through his skull. A whole new sound for a whole different world.

"Well, boys," he said with a skeleton grin and a tip of his charred bowler hat, "Looks like we might've found a new gig. Long-term. And I've got a great new song."

* * *


	3. Skeleton Boy and Skeleton Girl

**Skeleton Boy and Skeleton Girl**

"Come on, Evelyn, you cowardy-custard!" Adam called from the river's edge. "Come help me launch the ship!"

"I'm not a cowardy-custard," Evelyn replied in a small, hurt voice. She clutched her doll a bit closer and looked down at him from her perch on a flat rock embedded in the riverbank.

Evelyn didn't like playing so near the river. The rushing current made her nervous, as did the shadowy places under the bridge. But her brother, obsessed with boats and seafaring thanks to their retired sailor father, loved it. And as she was one year and three months older than her brother, it was her job to mind him. Particularly now, in springtime, when the usually calm little river was swollen with the melted ice and snow. Their father always told them to take extra care around the river in the springtime.

"Be careful," she warned her brother, Father's warnings in her head, but he paid her no heed as he sloshed barefoot along the river's edge, looking for the best spot to set down his toy boat. Annoyed, Evelyn shook her head. Adam was unmanageable sometimes, he truly was. But he was enjoying himself, and in the fresh air. Evelyn appreciated the fresh air herself. Sometimes, especially in spring, it could be very stuffy inside the village walls.

The sound of an approaching carriage made her look up. An ornate carriage pulled by a pair of horses was crossing the little stone bridge, heading toward the village gates. Evelyn watched the horses, handsome brown ones, and then the massive wheels of the carriage. The little curtains were pulled over the carriage windows, but the Everglot crest was plain on the door. For the moment Evelyn was distracted from worrying about her brother and the river.

Evelyn was fascinated by the Everglots. Their title, their ancestry, their enormous mansion, the dresses Lady Everglot wore and the parties that they threw. Often Evelyn would hang back in the square when on errands with her mother, and just stare at that imposing front door, wondering about the life that went on behind it. She always imagined jewels and fancy hats, lovely dresses and servants in livery.

Her mother said that the stork was due at the Everglots' soon. The entire village was talking about it. Most of the villagers, Evelyn's mother and father included, were certain the stork would bring a boy to be the next Lord Everglot. But Evelyn disagreed. Secretly, she hoped that Lord and Lady Everglot would have a daughter, and perhaps she and Evelyn could be friends someday. Little Miss Everglot would be much younger, of course, but that was all right. They could teach other things.

When the carriage disappeared through the gates, Evelyn turned her attention back to her doll. Soon enough she was lost in a daydream as she arranged the doll's hair and dress, imagining flounces and curls and preparing for a costume ball at the Everglots'...

"No!" Adam suddenly wailed from down the bank. Evelyn looked up, panicked by his tone, to see that his sailboat had been caught up in the current and was making its swift way downstream. She panicked even more when Adam began to wade into the river.

"Adam, don't! Stop!" she cried, tossing her doll aside and sliding down the bank. "You can't swim!"

"I want my boat!" he told her, and took another step, water rushing up along his knees and then up to his waist. The boat spun and tipped in the frothy water, seemingly a hundred miles away downriver. There was no way they would catch it, not now.

"Adam, come back here this instant!" Evelyn shouted, trying to catch up with him. She lost her footing on a slippery rock, and stumbled into the icy water. Chilled and dripping in knee-high water, she watched as her brother took another step away from her.

And, just like that, he was gone. Sucked under the surface without a trace. Too shocked and frightened even to scream, Evelyn gasped and pressed both hands to her mouth. For a moment she stood, frozen, the water tugging at her. She could cry for help, but no one would hear her. The town crier, usually on hand whenever anything out of the ordinary happened, as if by magic, was nowhere to be seen. There was no one to help. She couldn't waste any more time.

Evelyn made her choice, and dove into the rushing water after her brother.

0—0

Soaking wet and cold but otherwise unharmed, Evelyn and Adam walked hand in hand along the narrow street that led to their house. Mother would be furious. They'd ruined their clothes, lost their toys, _and _it was dark. Evelyn, older and supposed to be her brother's keeper, would be in especial trouble.

"I'm sorry," Adam said eventually, snuffling a bit. It was as though he'd read her mind. "Evvie? I said I'm sorry. That I lost the boat and fell in the water."

Evelyn ignored him. She wasn't speaking to him at the moment. She just tugged him along, wondering why there were strings of lights strung between windows. And why the lamplight coming from a few of the windows along the street was green. And why the cobblestone lane seemed so awfully long. She decided it was probably just because she was tired from all the excitement, and the exertion of splashing about in the cold water. Her eyes were playing tricks.

But when the two of them reached the end of their lane, Evelyn knew something was wrong. She let go of her brother's hand and took a few cautious steps forward, glancing around all the while. Something was very wrong indeed.

"Where is our house?" Adam asked, again seeming to read her mind.

Evelyn did not reply, but this time it was because she was frightened and confused. At the end of the twisty little lane there should be a little house. With a basket on one side of the door, and a little pot of flowers on the top step. There should be a lamp in the narrow front window.

None of that was here. There was just a wall. A dead end. At the same time, the two of them turned to look at each other. And as one, they gasped.

"Adam, you...you're _blue_!" Evelyn cried.

"So are you!" Adam cried in return.

After that, there didn't seem to be much to say. Deeply worried and deeply scared, Evelyn held out her blue hand. Adam, frowning and looking near tears, took it in his own. With nothing else to do, they turned and walked back the way they had come.

Now that she was aware that something was different, was wrong, _everything _seemed different and wrong about the village. Everywhere there were crooked walls and twisted bits of iron. There were stairs in places that didn't make sense. The buildings were not in orderly rows like they should be. Feeling a very deep dread, Evelyn stepped a bit closer to her brother and held his hand more tightly as they walked.

_What shall we do?_ Evelyn fretted. _Whatever shall we do...?_

Eventually they came to the square. At least that was the same as at home—all roads in the village led to the town square. To people. To adults who could, perhaps, tell them what was happening. Who could fix things and make them right again. Helpless, Evelyn and Adam stopped next to the statue in the center of the square, wondering what to do next.

"Look, it's a skellington horse," Adam remarked, pointing up at the statue. Evelyn looked up and saw that he was right. A skeleton horse. A dead horse.

"And look, there are more," he added, pointing again, this time at the front steps of a building across the way. "But they're people skellingtons. Skellingtons in clothes."

"_Skeletons_," Evelyn corrected. When she looked over, she saw that the skeletons standing on the steps, one in trousers and one in a tattered dress, were looking back at her. The one in trousers gave a little wave, which Adam returned.

"Adam," she said slowly, beginning to edge away from the statue and pulling him along with her, "We're in a town of dead people."

"You're right, little girl," came a man's voice, kind and deep, from behind her. Turning, Evelyn saw the skeleton who had waved to them. Next to it (him?) stood the skeleton in the dress. "And you both are dead people, too, now."

"Now really, Harry, you could have been a bit more gentle than that!" said the lady skeleton, and she gave him a little swat with a moth-eaten handbag. Looking down at Evelyn and Adam she added in a sweeter tone, "You must excuse him, he can be terribly blunt. But he _is _correct, dear. I'm afraid you both are...well, _downstairs_ now."

For a moment Evelyn felt a wave of dread and sadness so keen that she was sure she would explode with the force of it. Somewhere deep down, some little traitor part of her knew that the skeletons were right. She and Adam were not alive any longer. It was all so clear, so obvious, now that she let herself consider it. No more heartbeat, no more rumbling stomach, no more breathing in and out, no more being able to feel the wet dress she had on that even now dripped on the cobblestones.

But still Evelyn shook her head. "No," she said firmly, fighting back the sadness. "I am not dead, I am seven."

"Being dead is for old people," Adam agreed, sounding very sure. "Not for children."

Even though the skeletons didn't have faces, it was clear that the look they exchanged was a pitying one. After a pause the man skeleton crouched down so that he was at socket level with them.

"That's very true," he said simply. "Say, though, as you're here...would you like to have something to drink? Or listen to a spot of music, perhaps?"

Unsure, though not feeling scared or threatened, Evelyn did not reply. Going somewhere with skeletons she'd only just met, and bringing her little brother along, was not something a responsible older sister would do. Mother and Father wouldn't approve, not at all.

_Mother and Father aren't here, _Evelyn told herself, still trying to get used to the idea. _We won't see them again..._

"There's a place here with a lovely piano," added the woman skeleton. She spoke quickly, as though sensing what Evelyn was thinking about. "It's just over there. The Ball and Socket Pub, it's called. A very nice French man's head operates it. I'm quite sure he won't mind if we bring in our newest arrivals."

Adam, his expression hopeful, looked at Evelyn. Adam did so love to listen to music, just the same as she did. Perhaps that was just what she needed, what they both needed, to help them feel a little better. To help them get used to things. This new place.

"Yes, thank you," she said, trying to smile. The man skeleton stood and held out his bony hand. Evelyn, after only a moment's hesitation, took it. The woman skeleton did the same for Adam. Linked thus in a row, the four of them made their way across the square.

As they strolled, taking their time, the grown-up skeletons chatted over the childrens' heads about nothing much in particular. Every once in a while they would ask Evelyn and Adam a question—their names, of course, and what games they liked, those questions that grown-ups always asked children. Evelyn let Adam answer, for the most part. She didn't feel much like talking, not even to very kind skeletons like these.

She was seven. She wasn't supposed to be dead. But at least she had her brother. And Adam had her. Always.

Evelyn squeezed Adam's little blue hand tightly, reassuringly. They shared a brave little smile as the skeleton couple guided them both into the bright, colorful, welcoming little pub.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Lady Corpse in Red  
**

"I do so love Sundays!" Winnie remarked to her husband as they walked over the little stone bridge on their way to church. "The whole village seems brighter, don't you think? And it's always so nice to see everyone out and about, dressed in their best!"

"Yes, it's quite nice, dear," Herbert replied. "Though perhaps keep your voice down just a little? People are staring."

Were they? Winnie, chastened, glanced about at the other villagers on their way to services. Old Widow Wadleigh was nearest to them, and she appeared to be more focused on managing her new walker than anything else. Sir Robert from the sawmill _might _have been looking, but when she made eye contact he just touched his hat politely and kept walking. Behind them came the Wearys, all much too focused on their new baby to pay any mind to her.

"I don't think anyone is staring," Winnie said by way of an almost-apology, her voice humble and meek. Herbert didn't answer. Maybe he hadn't heard her. She took a deep breath to ease the tightening in her chest. Getting too upset over something so small would only make her condition worse, she knew. So it paid to keep cheerful.

Winnie did love to go to church. Not so much for the religion, but for the sense of community. She loved to see everyone together like this. Villagers mostly kept themselves to themselves. Sundays were special.

If only they did a bit more singing. At cousin Olivia's church in the city there was a pipe organ, so her letters said. It would brighten everything so to have a bit of a sing. Or to have congregants read from time to time. Winnie would love that so. She didn't have Olivia's flair or beautiful voice, but she liked oratory just as much as her talented cousin. Why, Winnie had even been to the conservatory to study singing, before she'd left to marry Herbert. To use her humble talents in service to the church would be a joyful thing indeed.

One Sunday years ago she'd mentioned her ideas to Pastor Galswells after services. How Olivia's pastor, Pastor Vandervelt, began his services in the city with hymns on the organ. How members of the community were invited to read relevant Bible passages after the sermon. How sometimes they even sang! How lovely it would be to have a town choir! His frown had grown deeper and his stare more penetrating as she'd talked.

"And I suppose if Pastor Vandervelt were to leap from a bridge, I should do the same as well," Pastor Galswells had said after she'd mentioned a choir, deflating her entirely. As he'd turned to leave, he'd added over his shoulder, "It's too much, Mrs. Hughes."

Winnie never brought up her ideas about church or singing again, not even to Herbert.

Just after they'd taken their seats in their usual pew, she felt a little flutter in her chest. Winnie dug through her drawstring bag and pulled out her china pillbox. She sat quite still, letting the little pill dissolve under her tongue. She liked to imagine the magical medicine snaking through her blood until it reached her heart, flowing and soothing until it could beat normally again. When she saw the worried sideways look Herbert was giving her, she smiled and discreetly patted his hand. Satisfied, he turned to nod hello to Mr. Mayhew and Mr. Visser, his colleagues from the cannery. Winnie smiled at them as well, though the bitter taste her pill left behind made her want to grimace.

The silence in the church was broken only by the occasional murmured hello, thud of a Bible, or scrape of a shoe. Winnie couldn't help thinking the atmosphere would be greatly improved with some music, but of course now she knew better than to say anything. Instead she enjoyed watching everyone arrive.

Every Sunday it was the same, but every Sunday Winnie felt anew a sort of unspoken kinship with her fellow villagers. Indeed, this village was so small most everyone _was _kin of one kind or another, but Sunday was the only day of the week anyone ever came close to behaving as if they were.

How much happier this place might be if everyone always behaved as if it were a church day.

"Dear, face the front, would you?" Herbert said in a low voice. "You're twisting about so, you're calling attention to yourself."

"Oh," said Winnie. Was she? True, she'd been turning her head just a little so that she could see into the aisle, and she _had _turned around completely to watch Mrs. Van Dort arrive (she liked to admire Mrs. Van Dort's hats, a new one every Sunday), but Winnie thought she'd been discreet.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, meaning it. She never liked disappointing her Herbert, though she seemed to do it with alarming regularity. At least in public. Herbert didn't have time to reply before Pastor Galswells began the day's sermon, but he did touch her knee. That made her feel better.

Today's sermon was about obedience, one of Pastor Galswells' favorite topics. He read at length from Isaiah, and then thundered on in his deep, commanding voice about how disobedience derives from rebellion. Ah, rebellion and the crushing of it, another of Galswells' favorite themes. She blushed to recall that he'd given a similar sermon the week after she'd made her suggestions about music in services. Winnie had been shocked and ashamed to realize she could _ever _be considered rebellious.

Winnie couldn't help her eyes sliding over the congregants, wondering who might have inspired today's sermon. No one seemed likely. At least, no one looked as if they felt singled out. That was comforting. Winnie hated to think of anyone feeling badly about themselves in church.

After the closing prayer, Pastor Galswells dismissed them. Row by row the villagers rose, more relaxed and even chatting here and there in low voices. Winnie had to take her time standing. Her ankles and feet were tingly. They were most likely swollen again. When she glanced down at her hands she saw her fingers were a bit puffy, too. She decided to take a little nap, and perhaps another pill, when she got home. If she could make it on these feet of hers.

"May we wait a little while before we walk home?" Winnie asked Herbert after a painful trip down the church steps. "My feet."

"Certainly," Herbert replied.

So they stood by the steps, Winnie moving from foot to foot as much as she could, trying to ease the discomfort without looking as though she was doing a jig. Villagers passed them by, some nodding, others not. When the Van Dorts went by Herbert stood up a little straighter, a deferential expression on his sweet round face. Winnie tried to match his stance. Always a good idea to impress one's husband's employers.

Mrs. Van Dort sailed past in her magnificent hat without so much as a glance, but Mr. Van Dort nodded to Herbert and wished him a good day. Winnie couldn't help smiling with pride. Young Victor Van Dort trailed along behind his parents. The poor thing hunched as if he had rickets, and never quite looked anyone in the eye. Winnie thought of her own son, Timothy, who was off at school. He'd been just the same at thirteen. Winnie sent up a silent prayer that Victor's skin would clear up soon. Perhaps that would aid his self-confidence.

The pain in her feet was easing, but only because they had apparently gone numb. Winnie's heart fluttered again. She wasn't at all sure she'd be able to walk home. But she didn't want to call attention to herself unless absolutely necessary.

"A wonderful sermon today indeed, Pastor Galswells," said Lady Everglot as she came through the church doors, her husband and daughter behind her.

"Instructive, yes," Lord Everglot agreed. "Thank you."

"_Quite _instructive, wouldn't you agree, Victoria?" Lady Everglot said in an entirely different tone to her daughter. Victoria, Winnie noticed, had her hair up this week. And a beautiful long dress. Why, she was turning into a young lady already.

Victoria, cheeks pink, nodded and looked at her feet. Winnie tried to exchange a look with Herbert, but he wasn't paying attention. Winnie wondered what quiet little Miss Everglot could have possibly done to inspire such a lecture. Knowing Lady Everglot, even by reputation, it could have been anything. Looking at Miss Everglot's face, Winnie felt her whole Sunday had been spoiled. Why, church was supposed to bring everyone together. Thinking back to the sermon, Winnie felt a bit of solidarity with the girl.

Rebellious, the both of them. What an idea. The Everglots went past, Lady Everglot steering her daughter by the shoulder. The crowd was dispersing, Pastor Galswells had disappeared back inside the church, and Winnie felt worse than ever. As if she were going to faint. Needing a bit of comfort, she reached out her arms and gathered her husband into a hug. Herbert was quite a bit shorter than she, and pulling him to her like this, her cheek on his head, always made her feel protective and intimate. She liked having him that close.

But Herbert didn't relax into her as he did at home. Instead he stiffened. Gently but firmly he pushed her away. The look he gave her said it all: _We're in public. That's too much._

Hurt but understanding, Winnie backed off another step and fiddled with her handbag. Her heart was racing again. Embarrassment, probably. She'd take a pill and be all right.

"You understand, Winnifred," Herbert said in a low voice. She appreciated the note of apology. "I work with a lot of these men. Why, Mr. Van Dort had just gone by!"

Winnie nodded, still trying to open her bag. Her fingers were trembling. A drop of sweat itched at the tip of her nose, and she wiped it away. She didn't _really_ understand, but she wasn't thinking all that clearly. Her bag dropped to the ground, and the fall seemed to take a very long time.

"Winnie?" asked Herbert, alarmed now. Oh, the look on his face! Her heart felt as if it was on fire. When she tried to breathe it felt like drowning. She put a hand on Herbert's shoulder to steady herself. It was no use. Her legs gave out anyway.

As Winnie collapsed against her husband, she felt grateful to feel his arms go around her. She'd been half-afraid he'd let her fall, for fear of too much contact in public. Even through the sudden fog and lethargy, she felt terrible for making such a scene.

On a Sunday, no less.

0—0

"New arrival!"

Winnie's eyes snapped open at the words. She didn't know who had spoken. Her head was clear, she was standing up. But something was wrong. All around her was noise and color, laughter and light. Someone was clanging a bell in a way that reminded her of the town crier. Where on earth was she? Indoors, somewhere. The place was suggestive of the Tavern before it had closed. Winnie had only ever peeked in the window.

She touched her face and felt nothing. When her heart did not flutter in its usual way despite the fear she felt, Winnie knew what had happened. A closer look at the crowd growing around her confirmed it. Dead. They were dead, all of them. And they were all watching her, some smiling, some hoisting glasses in her direction. Skeletons and half-rotted corpses, bits and pieces missing. Instead of being disgusted or frightened, though, Winnie was just sad. Unbearably, _unbearably _sad.

"No," she half-moaned, half-sobbed. She sank into a heap on the floor and buried her face in her hands. Hands, she noticed, that had turned blue. Winnie didn't care if this was too much or not. She was dead. She had died. Right there in the churchyard, right in front of her poor husband.

"Herbert!" Winnie moaned again, muffled by her hands. Oh, her dear little husband. And her boy, her Timothy. No no no, this wasn't right. This _couldn't _be right. Unfeeling as she was, Winnie wasn't sure if she was crying or not. She sat there right in the middle of the floor, sniffling and rocking. She didn't know for how long. She didn't care, either.

Eventually Winnie was able to pull herself together. As she stood up, she noticed that the formerly noisy tavern had gone quiet. Nervously she brushed at her dress. Her nice flounced maroon one, with just the hint of bustle, wasn't Herbert a dear. The thought made her want to cry again.

Everyone was staring at her. Even the ones without eyes. The smiles had turned into looks of concern, and the lifted glasses had lost some of their height. There were so many of them. There were a few dead faces that she recognized, but even more that she didn't. Unsure of what to do, or what they wanted of her, Winnie just stood as primly as she could and tried to look friendly. But not _too _friendly.

"Um," she said to the room at large, her voice shaky. "I...apologize for my...outburst. I'm new."

Much to her surprise, the whole place burst into laughter. If her blood was still flowing, her cheeks would've gone warm. Winnie wasn't sure if they were laughing at her or not. A skeleton wearing a decades-old red dress and with a few curls of gray hair poking out from beneath her enormous bonnet came out of the crowd and took Winnie's elbow.

"Now that it's out of your system, come have a sit, dear," said the skeleton. Touched, Winnie allowed herself to be led to a table by a piano. The skeleton, who introduced herself as Margaret, took the other seat at the table. The noise rose again, filled with laughter and conversation. A youngish dead fellow in a cook's uniform brought her a pretty blue drink in a dusty sherry glass.

"I _am _sorry," Winnie said to her companion after she'd tried a sip of her drink. Whatever the beverage was, it made her feel a bit more peaceful. As if her crying jag had been years ago. Yet still the memory lingered. "For making such a scene."

"What, for crying when you found out you were dead?" Margaret asked. She waved a dismissive bony hand. "'Scene' indeed. That was nothing. My own husband tried to dig his way back Upstairs, so I was told. The time for worrying is well past, dear. Forget it all."

Well. What a nice change. Perhaps this wasn't so bad after all. Winnie smiled into her drink, and resolved not to say another word on the matter. Thank goodness Herbert wasn't here to see this. He'd disagree with Margaret. Especially because Winnie was almost positive she'd seen a very old and very dead Mr. Van Dort Senior, Herbert's former boss, over by the billiard table. He'd have seen her entire outburst. And could see her plain as day now, sitting in a tavern having a drink. No one came up to call her rebellious, though.

As they sipped their drinks, Winnie and her new friend discussed the affairs of the dead. Winnie was surprised to find herself very content. Indeed, nearly happy. She'd never had a friend to sit with like this. Margaret told her all about what she kept referring to as "Downstairs"-the square, the shops, the neighbors, the traditions, such as they were. Why, Margaret was a one-corpse welcoming committee. Winnie wondered if she'd been like this in life, too, or if the village hadn't quite appreciated her.

"Ah, look, here comes the band. Do you like music?" asked Margaret, her yellow eyeballs the most alive-looking part of her. Her skeletal grin made her look even friendlier, grotesque as it seemed. Winnie was so unused to smiling, it was refreshing no matter what the source.

"Oh yes!" Winnie replied, clapping her hands. After so much silence for so long, music would be just the thing.

"Well, you are in for a treat," Margaret told her. "This is like nothing you've ever heard before, trust me. You'll love it."

Winnie grinned, no longer caring if the smile was too much. Nothing seemed too much down here. A group of skeletons took the little stage, and assembled intruments of a sort Winnie had never seen before. And the music! It had a quality that melted into your bones, got into your very soul. Margaret was right, Winnie had never heard anything quite like it. But she loved it. Clapping along the moment she caught the beat, Winnie looked around the room of the dead. Friends and neighbors, conviviality and conversation, everyone enjoying drinks and laughter and music together. In the rush of music and togetherness, this lovely sense of community, Winnie felt whole. And more alive than ever.

"This is better than church!" Winnie exclaimed happily. When the laughter of the dead came this time, she was sure they were laughing _with_ her.


	5. Chapter 5

Paul, the Head Waiter

Sacre bleu, the cockroaches!

Paul raised a foot and brought it down hard, missing the skittering roach by inches. Huffing, he watched the bug run across the floor, up the wall, and into a tiny crack near the ceiling. So bold! Paul thought, twitching his trim little mustache.

"Mon Dieu, vermin everywhere," he muttered as he turned his attention back to creating swans out of linen napkins. "It will never do. No. Non."

While his annoyance was genuine—nobody wanted little bugs running about during a wedding reception, it spoiled the ambiance—he was not shocked. The little roaches were as much a fixture of the tavern as the beer barrels behind the bar, the broken shutters, and the slight rising smell in the smaller guest room upstairs. This place was at least as old as the village, a timber-frame tucked round the corner from the village square proper. There was a tiny sign, but it didn't need one—everyone knew what it was. The Tavern. Only one in the village. In all honesty The Tavern, which served the village as a pub, a restaurant, an inn and a hall, was a real baraque. A dump. And yet, it was Paul's baraque. Through work and talent he had made it his own.

"You just stay where you are put, boys, comprendrez-vous?" Paul called as he expertly folded the napkin, a swan quickly appearing under his skilled fingers. He hoped his little bug-boarders were listening. "In your teeny hidey-holes, oui? No more running about, not when we have a wedding party tomorrow! When the Van Dorts and their guests are gone, you may come out again. D'accord, boys? Deal?"

Even as he spoke he spotted movement out of the corner of his eye. A roach even bolder than the last was twitching its way up and down and around the bottles of wine that Paul had set out on the long serving table. As Paul watched it, the beastie slowed, then stopped, perched atop one of the bottles. It seemed to be looking at him. As if it could tell that he was watching it. After a moment the roach twitched its little feelers at him and skittered down again, off and away to a crack in the floorboards.

So very cheeky! All he could do was shrug, unable to keep from smiling a little. The little roaches had been here long before Paul had arrived and they would most likely be here long after he left.

At the thought of leaving, Paul paused mid-swan, staring at its featureless little head. From within the walls came the skittering of bugs, and from somewhere else came the sound of a slow, steady drip of something or other leaking.

He knew this place, as they say, like he knew the back of his face. Nearly fifteen years he had been here, and ah, memories. There were the marks on the door-frame where Lady Glottberg's enormous hoop skirt had become stuck. It had taken Paul and three other men to pry her loose. There above the wide front window was a hole in the plaster where one of the resident Generals had accidentally fired a round from his service pistol while re-enacting a war story—Paul had never figured out which one of them it had been. Both of the old men had claimed credit. There in the corner was the little table where the Captain Wadleigh and his wife always sat, their visits like clockwork every other Saturday evening.

Ah, but he should not let affection cloud his judgment. This he knew. He did not want to be in such a place forever. And the offer he had had, it was excellent. One he would be a fool to turn down. His cousin Auguste had written to him of a job opening at Le Petit Moulin Rouge. Maitre d'Hotel. Just what Paul had always wanted, just what he had been working for.

And yet...he would miss this place. Tiny bugs and all. Paul sniffed, wiped a little tear from the corner of his eye, and went back to his folding.

"I've finished the wedding cake!" came Madame's low, round-toned voice. Paul glanced up to see her standing in the doorway at the top of the stairs that led down to the kitchen. Her flushed face betrayed a morning of work, as did the apron dusted with flour and smeared with icing, and her sleeves pushed up past her sturdy forearms. She looked very pleased with herself.

"It's sublime," she added, joining him at the long table where he worked. "Wait until you see it!"

"I am sure it is merveilleux, Madame," Paul told her. Immediately Madame puffed up like a little ruffled hen.

"You can call me Agnes, you know. I've told you so a hundred times," she told him, her tone amiable. This was an old, friendly disagreement between them. Paul gave a dainty shrug.

"It is a mark of respect," he informed her kindly. "As I believe I have told you...ooh la la, at least un million times."

"You old saucebox," Madame said, swatting him playfully on the arm. Quickly Paul glanced down to make sure she hadn't got flour on his jacket. "At least call me Miss Plum. 'Madame' makes me sound ancient. I'm only thirty-six!"

By Paul's count she had been thirty-six for at least a decade by now, but he let it pass. He handed her a basket of fresh orange blossom and a vase, and she set about putting together an arrangement for the wedding party's table.

Companionably they worked side by side in silence. Ah, stout and comfortable Madame. They had begun work here at the tavern at the same time, the day they had both arrived in answer to an advertisement-she to cook, he to run the dining room. And once he'd convinced her he was prepared to love her only for her personality and her magnifique blintzes, the pair of them had gotten on famously. He'd tried not to think too much about how he would miss having her about.

"How long will you be staying after the wedding?" Madame asked him now. She tried to sound nonchalant, but Paul caught the undertone of sadness. Looking down at her out of the corner of his eye, he saw that she was resolutely not looking at him.

Paul finished his last swan and set it to one side among its fellows. "Not too very long. I will make certainment Monsieur William and Mam'selle Nell are happily in the bridal suite, and then I shall go."

Professional that he was, the mention of the bridal suite made Paul run down the little checklist of preparations in his mind—nice sheets (easy, as there had been no guests nor live-ins since the Generals had died), a bottle of champagne (the genuine, which he kept locked up), a tasteful flower or two. Parfait. He would prepare it all after the dining room was finished.

A sniffle distracted him. Turning, he saw that Madame had begun to cry. Clearly she was trying to hold it in, but the sniffles and snorts were difficult to hide. As her hands were full of orange blossom the tears ran freely down her face.

"Oh la la," he clucked and soothed, "Ah non, Madame...The little flowers do not need watering. These little swans do not need a pool."

Paul tittered and nudged her with an elbow, but she did not smile. Frowning in sympathy, he handed her his handkerchief, which she took wordlessly.

"Ah, Madame," he said, watching her mop her face. "I am sad also. It is hard to leave here, it has been my home. Mais...c'est la vie, oui? Meetings, partings. I shall write. And you must visit! You and Boris both must come to France to see me."

"What'll we do without you?" Madame asked, shaking her head and blowing her nose. Paul waited for the noise to subside before he spoke.

"You shall get on fine," he assured her. "You will run the place well. I have full faith. You will all get on just like little ducklings, oui?"

"Just ducky, you mean," she replied, muffled by the handkerchief. But Paul grinned to hear the smile in her voice. "Won't be the same without you though, Paul. You've got that certain...I don't know what."

"Je ne sais quoi," Paul supplied.

"Yeah, that."

Their nice tete-a-tete, perhaps the last they would ever have, was interrupted just then by the unmistakable skitter of a cockroach. Yes, there it was, investigating the wedding table, hurrying this way and that and poking its little antennae against Paul's intricate cloth swans and freshly polished silver. With a flick of her wrist Madame snapped the handkerchief at the roach, but it evaded her handily. Together they watched it scuttle across the dining room and disappear into a hole along the base of the bar.

"Oh, I do get tired of them little things," she said. "We really should get rid of'em. It's not fitting to have bugs where people eat."

"Borax," Paul told her. He gently took the handkerchief from her and paused, thinking better of putting it in his vest pocket again. He stuffed it into his jacket pocket instead. "We used it at the inn at Lyon. Mix with sugar, scatter on the floor, et voila. Dead little roaches."

"Eh, I'll tell Boris," Madame said. She set the orange blossoms and vase to one side and brushed off her hands. "I'll go put the cake in the cool room. I'll see you at tea."

"A bientot, oui," he replied. After she had disappeared back down the stairs to the kitchen, Paul finished the arrangement of orange blossoms with quick, assured fingers. Simple and elegant. It would do. And so on to his next task, the bridal suite.

In a little nook near the top of the stairs was a tiny door which hid the dumbwaiter shaft. The dumbwaiter had been one of Paul's first improvements at the tavern. It was not mechanized, of course, they were too poor for that. Pulleys and weights did the job just as well. And the shaft was a wonderful means of communication between floors.

Paul opened the little door and stuck his head into the dimness, looking down into the shadows. The dumbwaiter itself must be one floor up. A quick upward glance confirmed his suspicion. He whistled, short and shrill.

"Boris!" he called, his voice echoing a little. "Boris! Attendez!"

There was a clank and a clatter, and then Boris's round, bald head appeared below, thrown into shadow by the dark dumbwaiter shaft. Tilting his face up, he regarded Paul with large, slowly blinking eyes.

"Yes, sir?" asked Boris. Cooking smells wafted up the shaft from the kitchen. Ooh la la, lamb. He might not be bright or quick, but none could beat Boris for butchering or for roasts. He had a gift. Most likely not even the Moulin Rouge could boast such talent in the kitchen.

"Please, tell Madame to send me up the good sheets, for the bridal suite," Paul said. "Bring the dumbwaiter down and send it back up, I will meet it upstairs, oui?"

"Yes, sir."

"And some of that lamb for me, if it is ready," Paul called with a laugh. "It smells magnifique!"

"Yes, sir," Boris said, pleased, and Paul watched his head disappear. Paul took another sniff. That lamb truly did have an intoxicating aroma. Paul's mouth watered a bit. He had not eaten a thing all day, so busy he had been.

From above came a rattle. Paul cocked an eyebrow and twisted his head to the side, glancing upward. The rattle grew louder as the dumbwaiter descended. A split-second too late, he realized what was happening.

Paul didn't even have time to gasp before everything went black.

0—0

"New arrival! Tap another barrel!"

When Paul opened his eyes, he was in a dim room. He'd barely had a chance to take in his surroundings when a large purplish face thrust itself toward his own. Paul reeled back in surprise.

"Hey there, sir! Welcome! Here, what'll you have?" asked the face. As the face withdrew, Paul saw that it belonged to a man standing behind a bar. He wore a long apron and had a mustache that was truly formidable.

Disoriented and unused to being the one asked such questions, Paul only blinked. He glanced around and realized he was in a pub. Of sorts. But it was not his tavern. Something seemed wrong. Something he could not quite put all his fingers on...That was when he glanced down. Glanced down, gasped, and then screamed. And then he screamed again.

Paul had no body. He stopped at his collar, which was resting atop the bar. He was a tete with nothing beneath. His body was gone! Gone! Such things did not happen!

"Ou est mon corps?!" he cried, glancing around desperately, nearly tipping himself over. "My head! Oh ma poor tete! Where is the rest du moi?!"

"Oi, now! Oi!" said the barman loudly, speaking over Paul's frantic confused Franglais and pushing a pint glass of something red and bubbling at him. "Calm down, sir. Here, drink this, you'll feel better."

Paul stopped short, and stared up at the man before spitting, "Drink? I have no arms! Quel est wrong avec vous?"

But the barman simply held the glass up to Paul's mouth for him. After a moment's consideration, Paul took a sip. Whatever it was, it did seem to calm him down. Even though he had no body. Just a head propped on a bar, thankful for his starched collar helping to keep him upright. Another sip. He did not bother wondering where the drink went, with no throat to carry it. In this regard his ignorance was his bliss.

"Better?" asked the barman. Paul could not nod without a neck, so he wiggled his eyebrows. The barman seemed to know what he meant, for he grinned.

The bar was filling with people. From his vantage point next to a keg Paul could see all down the bar and most of the rest of the room. It was small and dim, with earth walls. Like a crypt. Indeed, most of the people here he recognized as being no longer among the living. He had catered some of their funerals. A few nodded and said hello. Tres gentil of them.

"I am...as you say...mort, oui? I have died?" Paul asked, knowing the answer. Only little roaches could go about with such important parts missing. Men were not so strong.

"'Fraid so," said the barman, filling another pint glass and handing it to another customer over Paul's head. "Not so bad, though, once you get used to it. What happened to you, if I may ask?"

"I am not sure," Paul said slowly. He tried to think. And then he gasped. The dumbwaiter. The dumbwaiter.

Oh, that Boris. That cretin! That imbecile! If ever he saw him again...! Though really, Paul was aware that if and when he saw Boris again, Boris would be quite beyond anything that Paul could do to him.

"Un accident," he told the barman, "named Boris."

"Eh?" asked the barman, cocking an eyebrow.

"Rien," said Paul gloomily. The barman stepped away, leaving Paul to sigh and sit morosely next to his half-empty pint glass, watching a pair of cockroaches roaming along the bar, weaving their way unremarked between elbows and glasses. Some things never did change. He was rather comforted by the sight of the little bugs.

Paul realized that the roaches were scuttling their way over to him. When they were a few inches from him, they put out their tiny feelers and tested the air. Squinting and giving a sharp look at them, he saw that they looked a bit different than other roaches. Something about their color. And they seemed to sense that Paul was closely regarding them. They seemed to be watching him. One twitched a little closer, and made a little noise.

"Bonjour," Paul replied. For a moment the three of them simply regarded one another. Something about the calm, familiar way the cockroaches looked at him-and Paul knew that they were truly looking at him-made him ask, "Do I know you, boys?"

One of the roaches trundled closer until its feelers touched Paul's chin. Again came the little squeak. Ah, it was mad, fou...but Paul could have sworn the teeny bug said, Borax.

"Oooh la la," Paul clucked, looking at the little beasties. They did look a little purplish around the feelers. "My poor little boys. I am sorry. It was my idea, the poison. I do hope you forgive me. We are all in one boat now, oui?"

The roaches tilted their feelers as though in agreement. Then, much to Paul's shock, they scurried over to him and wedged themselves under his stiff collar. Displaying amazing strength for small bugs, the two roaches hoisted Paul's head onto their backs.

"Sacre bleu!" he cried in alarm and confusion, as the roaches carried him along the bar. As they traveled, more roaches joined in the entourage, until Paul was being supported by at least a dozen cockroaches, some alive and some dead. Corpses all along the bar moved their glasses out of the way, laughing and applauding at the unexpected little show.

"Ah, merci, yes!" Paul exclaimed with a laugh when the roaches finally stopped at the end of the bar. Thank you, boys!" What unsinkable little bugs they were. Creatures to be admired.

Most of the roaches dispersed, leaving Paul hoping that they would be back again. His two little dead friends stayed with him, arranging themselves attractively on his collar. Roaches. A bar, with shelves behind—coffins, he noticed now. Even a piano, which also looked as though it had recently held a corpse. And the clientele...so much more boisterous, so much more alive! It was what he had thought Paris would be.

Paul sniffed and blinked. He'd never see Paris. There would be no Maitre d' position, there would be no Moulin Rouge. No writing to Madame. Partings, oui, as he'd said. He'd not thought they would be so permanent.

"C'est la vie," Paul murmured. Then he caught himself, and grinned a little. "Or c'est la mort, oui?"

He looked around again, twitching his mustache as he considered with a more professional eye. And his conclusion: Quelle baraque! What a hole! Not fit for piglets! A crypt that should be a mausoleum, a charnelhouse that should be an ossuary.

The idea was there, the promise. A tavern was the first place one should always go when in a strange new place. At the end of a long day's travel, people wanted a jovial atmosphere and a nice drink. To put up their feet, sigh, and relax. In style. And what, in the end, was death but a long, long rest after the day was done? And what was this Land of the Dead, but a strange new place?

A few ideas began to form in Paul's mind. He would have to ask the barman whether he might be in the market for a fully trained Maitre d'Hotel. With all his talents, he could make this little place shine!

"Par Dieu, I could be head waiter after all," Paul said to the roaches, who twitched and squeaked. Then, realizing what he said, he giggled.

Head waiter. Tres amusant. He would have to remember that.


	6. Chapter 6

The Cut-In-Half Man

Ah, the smell of freshly felled pine. That was like nothing else in the world.

Sir Robert Glottberg took a deep whiff, exhaled noisily, and grinned. Jolly good stuff. Legs braced and arms folded, he stood in the yard just outside the sawmill and surveyed his property. He never tired of looking at it. Ever since he'd struck it rich, rich enough to be awarded a baronetcy, Robert felt he spent more time in his little office and store in the village than he did with the mill he and his father had built with their own hands. It was a Glottberg family enterprise, though for some reason, Robert's younger brother Raymond didn't seem to love it as he did. He seemed content enough with keeping the books and working in the shop. Robert simply didn't understand it. How could one not see the beauty of this place?

Shavings and chips and dust were scattered everywhere. The river which wound its way through the woods and around the village was at its widest and most powerful here, about two miles downstream from the village itself. The roar it made was a vital and powerful sort of sound, at its peak flowing through the waterwheel into the little millpond. The dark forest stood all around, brimming with oak and birch and pine, all ready to be felled. From within the mill came the metallic whir and buzz of the gangsaw and the enormous new head saw. Robert took another deep breath.

Work had been progressing nicely with the birch stand near the village, he saw—there was a pile of newly felled and trimmed spindly trees near the river's edge. Closer to the mill itself, stacked and ready to be loaded into the machinery, was a pile of beautiful oak logs. Finest quality, all ready to be turned into timber and sold.

From living tree to logs to timber, and then granted a long new life as flooring, ships, furniture, everything in between. Beautiful.

Robert took out his pocket watch and checked the time. Time enough, he decided, to meet with Merevale, the head sawyer, and receive an update about the day's work at the mill. Then from there to his private audience with Lord and Lady Everglot. He'd best be careful not to get sawdust in his mustache or wood chips on his suit.

With a sigh he replaced his watch and wondered whether there was any way out of this meeting. Not that he wasn't honored to be asked, of course. Such an offer meant acceptance into the old guard, the old money and old society. Many others in Sir Robert Glottberg's position would give their right hands for an opportunity like this one. The Van Dorts, for instance.

And of course, Robert could do with an heir. There was the mill to think of, and the baronetcy, now. Due to his work and lack of opportunity, he'd somehow managed to make it to forty years of age without ever taking a wife. Married life would be something to get used to. He did not know much at all about Miss Victoria. He knew her by sight, and had attended her coming out party in the spring, but that was all. Miss Victoria seemed quiet and polite, a trifle on the shy side. Pretty enough. Only just nineteen...

"Sir?" came a quiet voice from behind him, so quiet it was nearly swallowed up by the roar of the water rushing through the mill wheel. "Ex-excuse me? Sir?"

Robert turned to find the Van Dort boy coming across the yard toward him. He carried a leather satchel in one hand and a small glass jar in the other. The young man had shot up over the past year, he truly had, just like a sapling. A nice enough lad, but quiet. Tended to blend into the village scenery. Robert had often seen him ambling through the woods, muttering to himself as he took down notes and sketches. Actually, young Master Van Dort had had to be steered away from lumbering operations more than once, having wandered too close while concentrating on something else. For all that, though, a good young man.

"Ah, Master Van Dort!" Robert said jovially, striding over and extending a hand. Victor, who had that certain stoop of the very tall and terminally shy, for a moment looked as though he expected to get a wallop. When Robert grinned, though, his face relaxed.

"How do you do?" the boy said, returning the handshake. Robert was surprised to find it was a firm one.

"What brings you all the way out here, young man?" Robert asked. "Tell your father those packing crates will be finished when they're finished."

"Oh, er, yes, all right," said Victor, scratching the back of his neck. "Though I did come about something else, if it's not too much bother. If it is a bother, of course, I'll leave. Perhaps I will just leave now, and come back when-"

Robert stopped the young man with a firm clasp on the shoulder. When he spoke it was in the careful, quiet tone he used with men who'd just had a finger snipped off by a hatchet. It seemed to be the only way to talk to the boy. "No bother, none at all. What may I do for you?"

"Well, sir," Victor said earnestly, "I've been tracking some moths in the birches near the river. Gypsy moths. They feed on birch trees, and I've found quite a few in that little stand on the far side of the church. Today I went to look, and...well...the birches were gone. I thought perhaps you'd cut them—er, well, had someone cut them down. Sir."

Robert raised an eyebrow. He'd never heard Victor Van Dort string so many sentences together at once. Then he shrugged, and steered Victor toward the pile of felled birch. "If you think you can find what you're looking for, have at, my boy. Just mind you don't upset the pile."

As Victor pussy-footed his gangly way over the felled trees, Robert tucked his thumbs into his lapels and considered. Of a sudden, watching the young man, he felt terribly old. Miss Victoria was this boy's age. She should be clambering over trees and going on rambles in the wood, too. Or whatever it was that aristocratic girls did instead. Dashed if he knew.

"Got it!" called Victor from the birch pile. He held aloft his glass jar, though at this distance Robert could not see what it held. Whatever it was pleased the boy, though, for he stumbled twice over the logs on his way over due to an inability to tear his gaze away.

On the second stumble Robert was close enough to catch him by the arm to steady him. With a sheepish grin Victor held up the jar. Inside was some sort of cocoon, attached to the tiniest wisp of birch bark.

"Thank you very much, sir!" Victor said, stowing his prize in his satchel. "And pleasure to see you, sir."

"Glad to be of service, Master Victor," Robert said, shaking the boy's hand again. With a smile and a wave, Victor began to make his way back down the path toward the village, a subtle but definite spring in his step.

Ah, to be that age again. Free and not quite yet adult, no great weight on one's shoulders, no true responsibilities. Robert did miss that feeling. When Victor had disappeared from view, Robert turned and walked into the cool shadows of the mill.

Inside, the first of the huge oak logs were being loaded onto the mechanized carriage that led to the head saw. Merevale was at the switch, back to him. Robert watched, arms folded, as the logs were fed one by one into the saw. It was hypnotic. No matter how many times he saw the machinery do its work, he was always impressed. The enormous circular saw, tall as a man and then some, moving so fast it was a blur, the deafening buzz, the satisfying clunk as the pieces of split log fell to either side and were pulled away by the junior sawyers. Sawdust filling the air, the scents of wood and heat and metal and work. His mill had a magic all its own.

A young lady, particularly a well-bred one, might not fully appreciate all this. And why should she? No, she deserved dinners and rambles and a life of leisure with a kind young lad her own age, not a dreary life with an old duffer who constantly smelled of sawdust and had half his life behind him. If nothing else, Robert was sure he'd regret it sooner or later. After all, youth called to youth, there was no getting around that. Miss Victoria seemed a nice young woman, hardly the sort he'd want to make miserable.

I will respectfully decline, he decided. The Everglots would be be all right in the end. There must be another prospect about somewhere for their daughter. And Miss Everglot...well, if she stayed about, he could still enjoy looking at her, conversing at parties, suchlike. He was happy enough as an old bachelor, anyway. Old dogs and new tricks and leopards and spots and what have you.

Just then there was a clunk, audible over the sound of the head saw. The next log in line had slipped a bit off the track. With a glance Robert watched the current log being split cleanly and in two, in a hot whir of sawdust. He would have to be quick about it. One leap took him to the platform beside the mechanized carriage. The saw was still running, but he'd been around this machinery for years. He knew precisely how long it took a log to get to the head saw, and was confident he'd have time to set the log right. Robert put his shoulder into it and strained. At last the log rolled back into place, and he made to leap down again only to find that he was unable to move.

His foot. His foot was caught under the log. Panic overrode the pain of his surely broken foot, for a broken foot could be dealt with. Unlike a collision with a massive circular saw.

"Merevale!" he screamed, trying as best he could to lean over the log to get the man's attention. "For the love of Christ, turn off the saw!"

But it was too late. Robert could feel the little breeze made by the ferociously spinning blade at his back. That buzz, so pleasant mere moments ago, now sounded like a shriek. The log kept moving, seeming to crush his foot more with every advancing inch. Desperate, sweating, terrified, he tried to muscle the log off of its carriage so that he could free his foot and leap away. But he lost his precarious balance and fell backward.

The circular saw bit into his back with a sickening wet noise, and then a crunch and squeal as the blade met his bones. The log was pushing him into it, holding him there. If he screamed he couldn't hear himself over the noise of the hot saw eating into flesh and bone. A dark red shower of blood clouded his vision, covering him, the log, and the machinery. Robert was aware of the blinding, inhuman pain only for a few agonizing seconds before he lost consciousness. The last thing he felt was the bite of the blade cutting into the back of his head, the last thing he heard was metal meeting the thick bone of his skull, the last thing he saw was the oak log he braced against coated in his own blood.

0—0

Robert's first thought upon regaining consciousness was, Thank God, someone is sounding an alarm!

Opening his eyes he saw that he was sitting in an alleyway, propped up on an overturned box. And next to him sat a skeleton in a plum frock coat.

"Well hello, old chap," said a voice he recognized immediately. It was one he'd not heard in years. "Terribly sorry for you, of course. But it is good to see you again."

"Captain Wadleigh?" Robert asked, confused. The Captain had been a fixture in the village when Robert was a young man, and he'd grown to be a mentor of sorts. He'd been dead for at least fifteen years...Realization slowly dawned. The last few moments he'd spent alive flashed back to him all at once. The blood, the crunch, the squeal...Robert pushed it aside. Those memories were no good now.

And now that he looked more closely, he saw that they were sitting on an overturned coffin. Pine. Made from Glottberg Lumber, if he was not mistaken.

"Eh, titles don't matter much anymore. Do call me Alfred," said Cap—Alfred, his tone genial and uncle-ish, just as it had been in life. While now he was a dapper skeleton in moth-eaten clothes, the voice and the impressive mustache had not changed a whit. He looked Robert up and down, and added, "By Jove, old Bernie was dead serious. You are in a state."

"I had...a spot of trouble," Robert agreed slowly, noticing now that his voice had a strange echoey quality. His eyes weren't quite aligned, either. He was beyond sensation now, thank goodness, but looking down at himself he could see that he had been cut cleanly in half vertically. The line was clear, particularly in the spots where his two halves didn't quite meet. If he moved just so, he could hear squelches and pops as his halves tried to separate.

"Nice clean cut," Alfred said approvingly. Robert gave half a nod.

"It's what Glottberg Lumber is known for," he said, even now with a spark of pride.

"Come on, come inside," said Alfred as he stood. Robert followed, a bit too quickly it seemed, for his right half made it to its foot before the left did. Once he righted himself as much as he could, he carefully followed Alfred through a little doorway.

They were at the top of a set of stairs, looking out into...My my, a pub! thought Robert. A bloody nice one. A piano, a billiard table, a dart board, a stage. Remarkably clean and well-kept for being full of corpses. Corpses like him. Again Robert pushed away the memory of his death, pushed aside the grief over his loss of life, and tried to be a sport. Awkward, attempting to keep his halves safely together-for he'd spotted a few lady corpses in the crowd-he followed Alfred down the stairs into the pub. Skeletons parted to make way, a few stopping him to shake his hand.

"Ah, there's our new arrival!" cried a stout woman wearing a toque. Robert squinted. He felt he knew her, too. She came up and took his hand in greeting even as she said over her shoulder,"You see, Paul! New alarm works like a charm, I told you so!"

Paul! Paul he remembered. From the Tavern, where he and Wadleigh would meet for a quiet pint now and then. Shame about poor Paul, all that was left of him was his head. A head which was now jauntily coming down the bar toward him.

"Bienvenue, mon ami!" said Paul, spinning in a little circle has the cockroaches that carried him went this way and that. "Ah, it is as they have been saying! You must be happy to be here—you have split at your seam!"

Robert, frankly taken aback by the unexpected and downright terrible joke, was about to retort. But he had barely opened one half of his mouth when more shouts filled the pub.

"Why, you're twice the man I remember!"

"Funny, he's half the man I remember!"

"Oh, now now then, leave him be...he's probably got a splitting headache!"

"So this is the afterlife? This is what death is?" Robert asked Alfred, whose skeleton grin betrayed nothing. "Comedians in a pub, eh?"

"The alarm went off a while ago," Alfred told him, stepping up to the bar. "And then old Bernie found you outside. He came in to tell us you were there and what you looked like. This lot has been working on material ever since."

"I see," said Robert, really having to work at keeping his lips working together. It was as if his entire body was a belligerent team of loggers that he had to keep in line.

"Have a pint?" Alfred asked as he rapped his skeletal knuckles on the bar. "Or perhaps just a half?"

"Very funny indeed, old man," Robert replied. Alfred chuckled and asked Paul for two pints. Of what, Robert was not sure. It was pea-green and burbling, that was all he cared to know.

"It gets a little easier," said Alfred, handing over Robert's pint. "Death, I mean to say. And a bit of fun does help. Here, come have a listen, Mrs. Hughes is giving her Hamlet."

Interested, Robert followed Albert to a small table near the piano. Theatre was unheard of in the village. Even Bowdler's work was deemed improper by popular opinion. And Mrs. Hughes, of all people! In life she'd been an unremarkable village matron, married to one of Van Dort's employees. Who knew she'd have such depths?

But no mistake, that was her indeed, now a desiccated corpse in a maroon dress and matching wide-brimmed hat. Standing center stage, she began to declaim in plummy tones.

"To be, or not to be, that is the question," she began, with the easy grace and tilted knowing smile of a performer who had done her routine many times, and knew precisely what to expect of her audience. Indeed, there arose from the audience a swell of cheering and whistling, and a few anticipatory giggles here and there.

"Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune..."

"I say, get to the good part!" someone shouted, and every corpse in the place seemed to agree.

"To die..." Mrs. Hughes let the sentence hang. A great laugh came from the assembled dead. After a moment a skeleton wearing a bowler hat spoke up from where he leaned against the proscenium arch.

"What is it?" he asked in a gravelly voice. The question was immediately echoed by the rest of the audience, even Alfred. Mrs. Hughes offered a demure smile.

"To sleep!" she said, and another laugh rolled through the pub.

"I'm not tired!" came a shout from the back, and even Mrs. Hughes joined in the laughter this time.

"For in that sleep of death," she continued over the noise, "What dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause..."

"By George," Alfred said when his chuckles had subsided, even going so far as to wipe at the corner of his eye socket with a bony finger, "I never properly understood how amusing the Bard was, not until I arrived down here."

Robert took a swig of his drink. "One really must see it performed," he agreed, having read that somewhere or other.

As Mrs. Hughes continued her soliloquy to general hilarity, catcalls, and the occasional rim shot from the skeleton at the drums, Robert gave himself a moment to settle his mind. Literally, as it seemed to him that one half of his bisected brain was listing ever so slightly to starboard. Raymond would be the baronet now. And after that his son, Ralph. And unless a miracle occurred, Robert could only foresee his beloved sawmill being run into the ground. Oh, but Raymond would like the title well enough…Robert shook his head in disappointment, one half taking a moment to catch up with the other. Later he'd have to find his grave so that he could have a good and proper roll in it. While there was nothing to be done, he couldn't help but feel hurt. His mill, which he'd worked so hard for, had built and lovingly maintained, had been the end of him.

Outrageous fortune, indeed, he thought, and took another drink.


	7. Chapter 7

Miss Plum and the Kitchen Staff

One cold, gray morning, Agnes sat down heavily at the worn and battered wooden table in the kitchen. For the third day in a row she was sick as a mongrel dog. She hoped that a nice spot of sugary tea would help. Boris was still sick, too—he'd not even bothered to get up this morning. She let him be in his little room off the kitchen. Brother or no, accident or not...she'd not quite forgiven him. And Boris hadn't quite forgiven himself. Most like he never would.

Blank, trying to ignore her roiling stomach and the increasing sharp pain in her middle, she stared around the kitchen. She'd draped what she could in black, including the door to the dumbwaiter. The stove was not lit, and the shade was drawn over the window in the back door. The room was chilly and damp and oppressively quiet, the dark sky threatening rain outside. Not even the clock made a sound. Agnes had not bothered to wind it again after she'd stopped it on that awful day. No deliveries, no marketing, no cooking or preparations. She lacked the gumption even to send out for essentials, like tea and sugar—the sugar she'd been using for the past few days was the very last, the dregs she'd found in a battered silver tin tucked into the back of a cabinet.

There had been no business at all, not for weeks. Not since the Van Dort wedding. The festivities had been a trifle dampened by the village doctor and undertaker taking their notes and doing their work in one corner of the dining room. The serving had been all up to Agnes-Boris had been indisposed, as the constable had had a few questions for him. After an hour of Agnes dripping tears into their food and lethargic roaches lumbering around the table, Van Dorts had opted not to stay in the carefully prepared bridal suite. Recent death had rather ruined the atmosphere.

Poor Paul. Agnes still couldn't believe he was really gone. His handsome head taken right off, falling down the dumbwaiter shaft and rolling clear into the kitchen. Trailing gore until it hit the table leg and came to a stop. Not that she'd seen that. Boris had taken care not to let her see a thing until he'd got it cleaned up a bit, and had wrapped Paul's head, respectful-like, in a tea towel. But oh, she could imagine it well enough. Though it was kind of her brother to try to keep the worst from her. He'd always known how she felt about Paul, no matter how many other fellows there had been. And there had been a few over the years. It was one of those open secrets in the village. Agnes took a difficult sip of tea, her mouth tingling. She coughed.

Bless him, Boris had not said a word when she'd neglected to send every bit of Paul back to France. In response to her letter informing them of his passing, Paul's family had asked for his body. And his body they had received. Surely they'd never miss his head. Agnes needed some part of him here, buried in the churchyard. Fifteen years he'd been here. This village had become his home. The Tavern had been his home. Sometimes Agnes allowed herself to think, to dream, that she'd been part of home for him. Able to pretend, sometimes, that they were an old married couple. In all ways but an important few, that's just what the two of them had been, a bit.

It was the closest she'd ever come, anyway. Once one of the prettiest girls in the village, never lacking for lads, she'd gone matronly before her time—sleek black hair forever in a bun, stout frame always swathed in dark colors and covered with an apron. Wifely. Just what she was trying to be, what Paul never really saw. Fifteen years she'd wasted, playing house. She was alone but for her brother, with a leaky old pile of a building that she didn't want and couldn't keep, but with nowhere else to go and nothing else to do. And she was an old maid.

Swallowing back a sob, Agnes took a big swig of tea. Immediately her throat convulsed, making her gasp and choke. The pain her guts was even worse now. Looking down, she noticed strange red splotches on her hands.

Boris, she thought. She should get Boris. They'd fetch the doctor. She'd never felt this sick before. Dizzy, nauseous, and her face feeling as if it was on fire, Agnes heaved herself up from the table. She was having trouble keeping upright. Bent nearly double from the pain in her stomach, unable to swallow, she staggered her way to the door of Boris' tiny room. She braced herself against the doorframe.

"Boris?" she croaked, the effort of speaking just that one word making her feel faint. There was no reply. Squinting in an attempt to bring her swimming vision back to normal, Agnes saw Boris sprawled on his cot against the far wall. Even from this distance she could tell something was very wrong. His eyes were open, and his chest didn't rise or fall.

When she took a breath, her middle clenched, and she turned and vomited into the bowl in the washstand next to the door. Before she passed out, she just had time to register the strange blue-green color of the sick puddled there in the basin.

Now that's odd, it is, was her last muddled thought as she sank to the cold stone floor.

0—0

Perhaps being violently sick had been just the ticket, for when Agnes woke she felt just fine. Perhaps she'd dreamed wandering into Boris' room, for she was sitting at the kitchen table again, as though she'd never moved. Cautiously she stretched, thinking it strange that she was a little numb. A side effect of whatever her illness had been? Would the numbness pass, too?

Then Agnes took a good look around. Her kitchen was all wrong. Where the massive black stove should be was an old-fashioned open hearth and fireplace, like the sort her mother used to have. There was even a large iron pot hanging over the fire. The green fire. The ceiling was too low, and the back door, ajar and offering a glimpse into a dark alley beyond, had no window. Instead of a staircase leading upstairs, there was only a doorway with swinging saloon doors leading who knew where.

Suddenly filled with dread, Agnes stood from the table. The table which, she saw now, looked as though it had been cobbled together from bits of coffins and caskets. She could see the odd hinge and raggedy bit of silk lining here and there, even. With an airless gasp she backed up until she hit the sideboard, another bit of furniture seemingly built from tomb leftovers. The cutlery and silverware rattled in their canisters atop the sideboard, and one of the drawers, also filled with utensils, fell a bit open upon impact.

"I'm dead," she said, looking around but not letting her gaze settle on anything. "I died. I'm dead." She held a hand up to her bosom. No heartbeat. She raised the same hand up to her mouth and attempted to breathe on it, but no breath came. Agnes wondered if the rest of her had turned the same shade of violent blue as her hand.

Dead. Alone in a kitchen. With outdated equipment and mismatched cutlery. For eternity. Was this some sort of punishment?

Agnes leaned back against the sideboard, watching the green flames flicker merrily under the pot in the fireplace. From beyond the saloon doors came, strangely, the ringing of a bell. Wondering, she turned her head in that direction just as Boris came through the doors.

"Agnes," he said by way of greeting. He came up to her, looking a bit sad and uncertain, his movements as slow and lumbering as ever. Boris was the same shade of blue she was, and his eyes were sunken. Whoever had buried him had buried him in the one nice set of clothes he owned—his whites. Looking down at herself, Agnes saw that the same was true of her. Her whites were the only nearly nice things she owned. Pristine as a wedding gown, too, as she'd never worn them every day, as Paul had wanted.

For a moment they stared at one another. Then Boris said, "It was you they were ringing the bell for. I'm sorry. But I did figure. They rung the bell for me, too."

"Oh," said Agnes, thinking she understood. "A bell gets rung for the fresh dead, eh?" Boris nodded. It was a nice idea, in its way. Like church bells for a wedding or a christening. Only not quite as somber. This bell had sounded like a dinner bell. Merry, sort of.

"I'm sorry, too," she said after a moment. "What happened? How'd we get so sick?"

Boris looked at her with big, sad, cow-like eyes. "I've thought on it. Meant to tell you, but got down here before I could. Agnes, what sugar did you use?"

"What was left, the old stuff in that little canister..." She trailed off, understanding dawning. Clear as day the memory came...the last time she'd been with Paul...Borax. Mix with sugar...Dead little roaches. And she'd told Boris. Looking at her brother's broad dead face, Agnes knew she'd guessed right. She was stunned speechless, but only for a moment. Furious, she reached out for whatever weapon was closest—a fork, it turned out—and she jammed it into her dead brother's head, just above his ear.

"Ow!" he cried, though she knew it was more in surprise than pain. He was dead, after all. "What are you doing?"

Agnes snatched up a cheese grater and hurled it right into his face. "You put leftover poison back into a food cabinet?!" she shouted. "Where anybody might use it?"

"You didn't notice it were blue?" Boris asked in return, his voice feeble, chastened. But it wasn't enough for Agnes.

Raging, she dug her hands into the cutlery drawer and pulled out random utensils. More forks, ladles, a peeler, a potato masher, a whisk. And knives, quite a few knives, some in her hands blade-first, not that it mattered to her dead flesh. Some she threw at Boris, and others she plunged as deep and hard as she could into his back and head.

"Agnes! Get off!" he cried, holding up his arms in a vain attempt to ward her off. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! It were stupid, I'm sorry!"

"I'll give you 'sorry'!" Agnes fumed, running out of silverware and having to settle for whipping a dishcloth at him. He'd been the death of them all, he had. That brother of hers!

Only the sound of the saloon doors creaking open stopped her. She looked up to see a slender dead young man standing in the doorway, black hair frizzing out to either side beneath his toque. He was also wearing whites, just like hers and Boris'. Slightly embarrassed, Agnes stepped away from her brother, who finally felt it safe enough to stand up straight. One of his eyes had been knocked a bit loose in the kerfuffle, and he had so many kitchen utensils sticking out of him that he looked like some sort of culinary hedgehog.

"Anger stage, Miss Plum," said the young man, his voice quiet and familiar. "Perfectly normal. I went through it myself. You'll accept it all soon. It helps to keep busy, I found. I'm very glad Monsieur needed the help!" With that, he stepped over to a shelf by the fireplace and began taking down dusty brown bottles, which he set on a large silver tray waiting on a side table.

While Agnes had no idea what he was nattering on about, she remembered who he was the minute he said her name. Vincent. A Van Dort. He'd done fish deliveries to the Tavern until his unfortunate and untimely run-in with an unsecured load of herring on ice. Young Vincent had brightened up her Fridays, that was certain. And Monsieur, he'd said. Could it be? Oh, that would be just like her Paul, doing what he loved. She'd often teased him that they'd find him doing his job five years after he died. Turned out she'd been right.

"Monsieur Paul said to tell you to have a little drink," Vincent said gently, handing over a bottle, "and then come out to say hello. He sends his apologies about the circumstances, but he'd very much like to see you."

Agnes took the bottle and took a swig, not bothering with a glass. Vincent nodded, hoisted the tray onto his shoulder, and then left through the swinging doors. Whatever the drink was made her calm immediately. Almost cheerful again. Or maybe that was just hearing Paul's name.

"Nice to see Paul again, it was," Boris said, coming up behind her. "He were just as mad as you, at first. But we're all friendly-like again, now." Feeling warm and generous of a sudden, Agnes handed him the bottle, just to show no hard feelings.

"Sorry about that little tantrum," she told him, even as she tried to decide what she was going to say to Paul. She smoothed down her whites and poked at her hair, thinking that she'd have to find a toque of her own. Boris shrugged.

"At least I won't be losing my knives the way I used to," he said, fingering the handle of the one she'd stabbed him in the back of the neck with.

Eternity in a kitchen. With her brother and Paul and with Vincent Van Dort. Maybe it wasn't a punishment at all. It was all too much like her happiest years to be a punishment. Somehow she knew that if she wanted, she could be here to stay. It was all too perfect, really.

"Come on, then," Agnes said, giving her apron one more adjustment and making her way toward the swinging doors. "Show me round the new place, Boris. And no hard feelings, right?"

Boris grinned a slow grin. "No hard feelings," he agreed. "No real point to'em any more."

With that, they left the kitchen together, letting the saloon doors swing to an unhurried stop behind them.


	8. Chapter 8

Grandfather Everglot

Troubled and wakeful, Phineas, Lord Everglot, slowly wheeled himself in his Bath chair down the portrait gallery. The hall clock had just gone half-past two in the morning.

Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself along. Finally he had to stop for breath at the end of the gallery, under the portrait of his grandfather, Felix, the very first Lord Everglot. The very first nobleman in the village. Before they were barons, the Everglots had been knights. Leaders of men, descended from the very best families of four nations. This village was theirs from its very beginnings. The Everglot name and legacy had been handed down and maintained and cultivated for centuries. Phineas valued that name more than his own life.

Names, old families, endured. They endured as nothing else did. At this very late stage in his life, his name was the only thing Phineas had left.

He glanced about in the gloom, and then, once he had confirmed that he was alone, Phineas pulled a decanter of sherry from beneath his lap rug. He'd not bothered to bring a glass. Pulling the crystal stopper he lifted the bottle to his lips and took a guilty swig.

If his Grandfather Felix could see him now, what he'd become...oh, he'd most likely roll in his grave. Old, decrepit, confined always to his bed or his chair, enjoying his sherry far too much. Phineas took another swallow, a dribble running down the corner of his mouth and dripping onto his dressing gown. For all the indignities of age, he still deserved the respect of his title, of his place as patriarch. This latest insult was more than he could stand.

No one had bothered to ask him to choose a wife for Finis. No, his daughter-in-law hadn't even thought to ask. Not that she ever did in anything else, either—she'd become much worse since Fergus had died. She did precisely as she liked. Margaret had made the match. No blood relation! No true Everglot! No longer even the baroness! And she had had the audacity to choose the next Lady Everglot.

No permission was asked. Merely his blessing. Bah! Today's tea with Miss Elvstead and her aunt and uncle, Alfred and Gertrude Wadleigh, had had the air of an afterthought, of humoring him. Letting him think he had an opinion worth hearing. Past his prime or not, he was still Lord Everglot, by God. In practice, of course, Finis had taken on many of the duties and responsibilities required of the position, but the title still belonged to Phineas. It was his until he died. They'd have to pry the Everglot ring from his cold dead finger.

Phineas grunted angrily and tried to shove the stopper back into the decanter. His shaky old hand lost its precarious grip, and the stopper fell to the marble floor with a clatter. Phineas swore, his words echoing down the gallery. As the echo faded he heard a new sound, soft slippered footfalls from the gloom. He turned to see his granddaughter Lavinia step from the shadows. Rumpled and drawn, wearing a tattered old dressing gown, she looked more like a woman of fifty than a girl of twenty-two. Moving slowly and deliberately she bent and retrieved the stopper, and stood for a moment turning it over in her hands before she held it out to him.

"Thank you," he grumbled, taking it. After his next fumbled attempt at stoppering the decanter failed he swore again, and held it out to Lavinia. "Bah! Here, you do it."

The dainty little hands that took the decanter were so pale that they seemed to glow in the darkness. As a little girl she'd always been so rosy. All the Everglot women were, always had been. Rosy-cheeked, small-featured, plump and blonde. Lavinia had been a real beauty, before her troubles. When she handed the decanter back Phineas averted his eyes from the angry scar that marred one pale wrist. He knew very well she had a matching one on her other arm.

"What is your opinion of Miss Elvstead, Grandfather?" Lavinia asked abruptly. Ever since she'd returned from the sanitarium, it seemed, she'd had little patience for niceties or decorum. Frankly, Phineas didn't mind, so long as she wasn't shaming them in public. Her mother had only allowed her in the drawing room today because she had agreed to remain silent, control her tears and temper, and to leave after shaking hands with Miss Elvstead. Phineas, head of the household and head of the family, had been under similar orders, as outrageous and insulting as that was.

A decrepit old man and a mad young woman. They had quite a bit in common. Not least all the time they spent kept in the house.

"She is not the match I would have chosen," he replied, shifting in his wheeled chair and disarranging his lap rug in the process. While Lavinia knelt and straightened it for him, he went on, "The Elvsteads are an old, good family, but with each generation they seem to lose more and more of their breeding. It's deplorable, what they've become. Scandal every time you look at them."

Lavinia remained kneeling next to him, arms folded on top of the wheel, her long blonde curls falling loose. A cross, hurt expression twisted her round face. "Why, add the lost money to the list, and you might as well be speaking of our family, Grandfather."

"You are not a scandal, Lavinia," he told her gruffly, ignoring the crass but true comment about money. "Your brother might think so, your mother, and your father, God rest him, but they are quite wrong. You've had troubles, that's all. Such things do happen, but we've fixed it all, haven't we? You behave as you should now, there's no scandal in that."

Lavinia smiled without any mirth whatever. "You are very generous, Grandfather. But an Everglot in a sanit-" Phineas stopped her with a raised hand.

"Enough," he said, again removing the stopper from the decanter. He took a long swallow of sherry, smacking his lips when he'd finished. "You took the waters. For reasons of health. That's all."

There was a silence. The two of them sat there in the shadowy gloom of the gallery, the chill of the hall settling in around them, their ancestors gazing down upon them from their frames. Each and every one of them had walked this gallery. Sometimes, when it was late, and dark, and quiet, such as now, their footsteps and breath could almost be heard. Phineas and Lavinia, and Finis, the heir, had the Everglot legacy in their keeping. For that legacy to even be in slight question, why...it was intolerable.

"You're of delicate health, all noble women are," Phineas added in a low voice. Nodding with finality, he grunted and took a touch more sherry. Ah, finally, the world was beginning to go soft, his feelings and thoughts were losing their hard edge. Fuzzily he looked at the mostly empty decanter, then at his granddaughter. Scandal indeed. It was only a scandal if people knew.

"The Elvsteads, for instance," he went on, gesturing with the stopper, "Just look at them. Minor nobility in the first place. The Wadleighs, the ones who took tea with us today? Eloped, after quite a bit of public shame. Miss Elvstead herself, with her piano playing and her riding sidesaddle and her foreign schooling...and her father? General Elvstead, a general who was never in any army the rest of us knew about. And he married below himself, too, a dismal woman who finished up by putting a pistol to her-"

He broke off, remembering himself. Lavinia's pale face had gone slack and expressionless, but her eyes were filled with pain. Phineas, uncomfortable, coughed and adjusted his lap robe.

"The Elvsteads put their troubles out in public," he finally grumbled. "That is all I meant to say. It's not befitting. And it seems as if all the troubles are in the female line. That Maudeline will be bearing future Everglots. Bad blood outs eventually. It always does. When Finis returns, I'll be sure to speak with him before he meets her."

There was another silence, this one punctuated by the tiny noise of Lavinia chewing on her thumbnail. Phineas turned his head a bit so that he didn't have to see. Sometimes she would chew until she bled, and never notice.

"I don't think she's quite the lady she pretends she is," Lavinia murmured, almost to herself. Phineas looked at her in surprise. Lavinia continued to talk around her thumbnail, staring into the middle distance. "Maudeline. I can tell. I don't know if it's bad blood, Grandfather, as you call it, but...there's something underneath all that propriety. And it's not the riding, or music. It's almost as if she's...cornered. Afraid. I could tell when I saw her eyes."

"So could I," admitted Phineas. Yes, he'd noticed. You would have to be a fool, or his daughter-in-law, not to notice. So long as it, whatever it might be, was kept quiet, and that he and Lavinia were the only ones to suspect, scandal could be kept at bay. If Maudeline Elvstead was truly as well-bred as her bearing, education, and chin displayed, then she would also desire to avoid open scandal at all cost.

In the end, the Everglot name was all they had. The only thing that would last. It must remain untainted.

Phineas opened his mouth to tell Lavinia that it was quite late, they should retire, but instead of words a tumble of gibberish fell from his lips. And then, the worst pain he had ever known exploded in his right temple.

"Grandfather?" Lavinia cried. It sounded as though her voice had traveled down a long tunnel. Phineas tried to turn his head to look at her, but his body seemed beyond his control. The dark was increasing, he could no longer see. The decanter tumbled from his slack, useless hand, the crash as it shattered on the marble floor reaching him only dimly.

"Don't let there be a scandal," he tried to tell her, knowing he was out of time. But his mouth no longer worked, his throat could only croak. As Lavinia fled for help, Phineas sank into himself, everything around him a dark fog.

0—0

The next thing Phineas knew he was standing in the very middle of a crowded, dingy tavern. It was louder than any place he had ever been, with shouts and piano music. Every angle was off-kilter, and the colors were somehow brighter than normal colors could ever be. Where on Earth...?

And then he realized. He was not on Earth. Not strictly speaking, at any rate. He was somewhere...other. He'd never see Earth again. A different sort of man might have swallowed with emotion. Phineas merely cleared his throat, held his distinctly Everglot head high, and took in the scene, unable to keep from thinking about how dreadfully common this all was. Once he might have said he would never be caught dead in such a place...

Four pairs of skeletons danced an exuberant polka, their tattered clothes aflutter, laughing as they spun. The dead woman at the coffin-shaped piano was small but sturdy, and had been buried in a grey silk gown. From where he could see her profile, Phineas saw that she had one doe-like eye left, and a heart-shaped, nearly fleshless face. What skin remained was pale blue. When she turned her head to flash the dancers a skeletal grin, Phineas saw the bullet-hole in her temple.

She never seemed that gay when she was alive, he thought, not without a hint of disapproval. As he glanced around at the corpses making merry, cavorting, and pouring pints down their decaying throats, Phineas frowned.

"I have died, and I have gone to Hell," he said, adjusting his periwig. He took a step backward, intending to find somewhere quiet so that he could rest in peace, but instead trod on the foot of the corpse behind him.

"Oh! Sorry!" said a croaky voice from below him. There were not many men who Phineas Everglot could physically look down upon, but here was one of the few.

Standing there looking sheepishly up at him, a saber sticking out of his middle, was dwarfish General Adrin, nearly overwhelmed by the hat of his dress uniform. They had never been on social terms, not by any stretch. Adrin had lived at the Tavern, a lifelong bachelor.

"I do beg your pardon-your Lordship?" he finished with rising inflection, and stepping back in deference. "So sorry for your loss of life."

Phineas nodded his acknowledgment. He wished he could say the same to Adrin, but he knew that barmy old Adrin had gone just the way he'd wanted to go, he and his even madder friend-

"Lord Everglot!" broke in General Sutherland, coming up to them. A huge hole was ripped through his middle, spoiling his Dragoon uniform. With one easy movement he swung Adrin up onto a convenient table by the saber handle, and then offered a salute. "Bly me, pleasure to see you. Hasn't ever really felt natural down here without an Everglot! Welcome!"

Again, all Phineas offered was a nod. Out of their trees, the pair of them. Completely. He would have to make sure he did his best to spend eternity far away from this pair.

"General!" called Sutherland over his shoulder, "I say, man, come see who's joined our ranks!"

Another of them? It could only be...Phineas drew himself up to full height and put on his most imperious face when the third general came to join them.

"You! Elvstead!" barked Phineas. The corpse paused, stein halfway to his mouth, and looked Phineas up and down. As in life, the man was very tall, with a handlebar mustache. His chin was his most arresting attribute, hanging down almost to his collarbone. Like the other two he wore his dress uniform. As his had been a quiet death, it was still in rather good condition, but for a patch of mold here and there.

"No one's called me that in a dog's age," hiccuped General Elvstead. "Around here they call me Vitgenshtein! Right, lads? Wellington? Bones-apart?" He laughed and hoisted his stein at his fellow veterans, who returned the gesture with raucous laughs of their own. Phineas waited for the hilarity to subside.

"What's all this about your daughter marrying my grandson?" he demanded, quite forgetting in his annoyance that Elvstead had been dead for three years and had nothing to do with it. "Tell me now, is there anything she's hiding? Will she make a proper Everglot?" Phineas knew he was barely making sense, and that Elvstead was barely sober, but he had to know. He'd never rest completely until he was sure that his great-grandchildren would be of good blood.

The mention of his daughter seemed to sober Elvstead up. "Maudeline? Marrying an Everglot?" he said wonderingly. He stroked his enormous chin. Then he grinned. "I say, what good luck for her! She's a fine girl, all told! Here, old boy, let's have a pint to celebrate!"

Before an aghast Phineas could think of a reply to this effrontery, Elvstead had clapped a hand on his shoulder, turned to the room, and cried, "Drinks for everyone! My daughter's getting married!" A cheer went up from the assembled dead. A young dead man in a worm-eated frock coat bent over the piano and tinkled the opening bars of the Bridal Chorus.

"I? Drink with you?" Phineas demanded, pulling away from Elvstead. "Are you mad? And answer my question!"

But Elvstead merely grinned again, passed around drinks that seemed to appear from nowhere, and began happily informing every corpse in the place of the fortuitous wedding going on "Upstairs." Lip curled, Phineas glowered at his moldy back until he disappeared into the scrum of the dead, seemingly headed for the piano.

"Oh now, your Lordship, we're all of equal rank here," said Sutherland, two mugs of something vile and frothy in either hand. "We put it on for fun now and then, but it's all behind us now."

"Death is the great equalizer," agreed Adrin. "Lords and commoners, generals and privates...they all drink here in the end!"

"Not I, thank you," said Phineas coldly. Still, he took the glass of what looked like sherry from the bartender before he turned away. "I have a position to uphold, dead or not. Goodbye." And, after a moment's pause, he took a second sherry glass in his other hand.

"'Bye, then," said Adrin, draining his glass. Sutherland, his hands still full, offered a beery salute.

"Good-bye, your lordship!" chorused what sounded like every single dead villager in attendance. He also thought he caught a few laughs and whistles. A barely sober skeleton near the door hiccuped and waved as he passed.

"Of all the disrespectful and outrageous...bah!" he grumbled as he went through the door out onto the square. Resolute, and ignoring the corpses who waved or greeted him as he stalked by, Phineas made for where, in the land of the living, the graveyard would be.

He was an Everglot, and he wanted to be alone. He'd always been alone, in the end.

Soon enough he came to a mass of gravestones, some in better shape than others. A graveyard in the land of the dead looked like something out of a storybook-wrought iron gate, grey tombs. And yet every angle was tilted, every color was bright, not the somber one would expect. Names began appearing on the stones and gates, ones that he recognized. Some were his relatives. Nearly every family in the village was connected somehow. Death didn't change that.

Phineas walked until he found the Everglot crypt. It was similar to its counterpart in the land above, except that here it seemed to glow bright green. He considered it for a moment, taking in the lack of shadows, the eerie glow, the little string of purple lights someone had put up between the marble columns on the exterior. Death's version of the Everglot mansion, more or less. Melancholy flooded him, and he felt on his finger for the Everglot ring.

It wasn't there. By God, they had pried it off his cold dead finger. Anger and a fresh feeling of loss replaced the melancholy, but subsided soon enough. At least the ring was on Finis's hand now.

The door of the crypt was open. Peeking in, he saw that several of the coffins were open and empty, including his late wife's. Even Grandfather Felix's. In all it had the look of a room at an inn awaiting its inhabitants at the end of the day. If he sat long enough, his family might return. Oh, he did hope they would.

His own casket was set into an alcove in the far wall, waiting for him. Careful not to upset his glasses, he climbed in, noting how very handsome a box it was. Finis and Lavinia had done well.

Sipping from his sherry glasses, Phineas, Lord Everglot, sat in his casket in his family's resting place, and waited. For what, he did not know. He would need to think about that. Perhaps for his fellow Everglots to return, supposing that they ever did. Perhaps for Elvstead to chance by, just in case. He supposed he did not have the patience to wait all the way until Judgment Day. Perhaps he could go back to that little pub, eventually. Just to make his lordly presence known. To remind his departed villagers that the Everglot name held power and prestige, even beyond the grave.

Besides, his glass of dead man's sherry could use a top-up.


	9. Chapter 9

The Third Cook

"Hear ye, hear ye!"

The town crier's call echoed throughout the square, as did the clang of his ever-present bell. Vincent Van Dort was startled out of his daydreaming by the noise, and gave such a start that he nearly toppled from the driver's seat of the Van Dort's Fish delivery wagon. He steadied himself against the dash, and, once collected, leaned out of the wagon's open side for a better look. From the little alley that ran between the clockmaker's and the Everglot mansion, he had a nice view of the village square. The clanging grew louder as the crier came into view.

"Funeral service suitably somber success!" the crier called. The crier turned this way and that, one hand cupped around his mouth. "Internment in the Everglot Vault to follow! Ten minutes!"

"Whoa, now," Vincent soothed the horse, who had started at the shouting. "Peony, take it easy, now."

After a bit more soothing the horse quieted, and Vincent leaned and gave her an affectionate pat on the flank. The crier's calls and clangs faded as he continued his seemingly constant one-man parade through the village streets. It would appear that Vincent and the crier were among the few villagers who were not attending Lord Everglot's funeral. It was traditional for villagers to turn out to mourn the loss of the local baron, despite the fact that only a select few would actually be allowed in the church. Tradespeople seemed to be the odd folks out. The news needed reporting, Vincent supposed. The Tavern needed to be open, such a fixture it was. And fish, which didn't keep, needed delivering. That was Vincent's job.

The fish wagon had been cousin William's crazy idea. He'd even built it himself, with Vincent's rather unenthusiastic help. It was an icehouse on wheels, more or less. In a village this size, the idea of deliveries seemed rather silly. Servants and housewives went to the market to buy fish from Uncle Theodore, and had done so for as long as anyone could remember. The two of them were among the crowd gathered out at the church. Trust William to be the one who tried to change things, particularly when he wasn't the one to actually drive the wagon...Though Vincent couldn't resent him entirely. Not when his job meant weekly deliveries to the Everglots'. Without this job, he'd never have caught a glimpse of her.

Her. Miss Everglot. Lavinia. He hardly dared even to think her first name. For a fishmonger to think about a baron's granddaughter the way he thought about Lavinia...it was unheard of. All the same, a man could dream. Even outlandish dreams.

Smiling a private little smile, Vincent drummed his fingers against the dash. He glanced up to the balcony on the mansion's second floor. It was just above the portico. Ivy crawled up the pillars and onto the balcony, and from there up the side of the house. That was where he usually saw her. Sitting in a little chair. Or standing behind the French doors and staring out when it was raining or chilly. It was a routine, a lovely routine. He'd finish his delivery at the tradesmen's entrance in back-most often brown trout, and always herring, both fresh and kippered-and then he would make his way back toward the square, pausing beside the portico. Up he'd glance, his heart skipping beats with excitement and anticipation.

Sometimes, he was certain, she'd seen him. She'd noticed. A few times she had seemed to smile, though he was always far enough away that he couldn't be sure if it was meant for him. Vincent hoped they were. The memory of those smiles kept him going through lonely weeks. Recently he'd grown a bit bolder, and had nodded to her if he fancied that she'd caught his eye. Once or twice he'd got up the gumption to even touch his cap. After those occasions, he'd barely been able to sleep for reliving it over and over.

"If we don't see her soon, we'll need to move on," he said to the horse. Seeming to understand, the horse nickered and tossed its head. "Miss Plum doesn't like us to be late. Neither does Monsieur."

Next to the Everglots', the Tavern was Vincent's favorite delivery stop. Next to the Everglots', the Tavern was Vincent's only delivery stop. Miss Plum was friendly, Monsieur even more so. The Tavern was really a remarkable place, at least to Vincent's admittedly inexperienced taste. So gentrified, so genteel. Vincent been allowed in the kitchen once, and he'd been immediately enamored. And then he'd seen Monsieur, so foreign and trim and professional in his livery. No dirty aprons or frozen fingers. Last week, as Boris unloaded a delivery of sardines and salmon, Miss Plum had taken a break from supervising to pull Vincent aside.

"I've spoken to Paul," she'd said. "He agrees we could use another pair of hands round here. Someone to be our third, you know? Help out Paul here and there, but mostly down in the kitchen with me. If you'd like."

"I'd like very much!" Vincent had said eagerly, so much so that he hadn't even waited for her to completely finish her sentence. Miss Plum had beamed, he'd beamed back, and suddenly the world looked brighter. The sun was sunnier, the drab colors of the village looked ever so slightly brighter, and even the fish he hauled about smelled a little fresher.

Monsieur Paul had even taken a moment to speak with him. Monsieur had even been kind enough to endure Vincent's admittedly fishy smell with only the slightest and most unobtrusive wrinkle of his nose.

"Ah, oui, you will be parfait, this I know!" Monsieur had said, putting a slim hand on Vincent's shoulder. "You I shall train to follow me, a Maitre d'Hotel, oui? And if Madame needs you here and there, you may also be her helper. Agreed?" Vincent had nodded and shaken Paul's hand with the distinct feeling he was joining an entirely new family. Van Dort's Fish was only a placeholder, he wasn't even a direct heir or anything like that. He was meant for better things than driving a wagon around.

Over the course of the week, his professional and romantic daydreams had blended together. Monsieur Paul would train him to be a "Mater de Hotel," and then Vincent would kick the dust of this dreary village from his feet and go see the world. Eventually he'd end in...oh, Spain. Maybe Germany, or Russia. Open a hotel, with his wife by his side. Lavinia Van Dort, who wouldn't mind in the least that he was poor and common. But such a thing was impossible. Noble women didn't marry fishmongers. Or Mater de hotels. Vincent frowned. What a fool he was. He'd never even spoken to her. Smiles and little waves didn't mean a thing. Not a thing.

Heavy of heart, he took one more look up at the empty balcony, the dark windows. Miss Everglot was most likely at the funeral. What a fool he was not to have thought of it. An utter, impossible fool. That was Vincent Van Dort.

He picked up the reins, feeling ridiculous and disheartened. At least he had the Tavern to look forward to. Perhaps Miss Plum had made blintzes today. Just the thing to help him feel a bit less bruised. He made to click his tongue to get Peony started.

"I do hope you brought trout today," said a husky, genteel voice. Vincent paused, his tongue in mid-click, and turned. Next to the wagon, next to him, stood Lavinia Everglot. His jaw dropped, his throat dried up, and his brain seemed to stop working for a few moments.

She was dainty and plump, and clad in mourning garb. She seemed swallowed up by the enormous hoop skirt and the big sleeves. Her black bonnet was draped with a black veil, so that he couldn't see her face properly. Somehow he was grateful that he couldn't see her eyes. Such a sight might send him swooning.

"I enjoy trout," she went on, running one small, black-gloved hand along the lettering on the side of the wagon. "My grandfather always did, as well."

Vincent was dumbstruck. Lavinia Everglot was standing right there. Talking to him. Touching his wagon. He gulped.

Say something! he ordered himself. Vincent was terribly aware of how fishy the wagon smelled, how his apron was dirty, how silly he must look with his cap and his black hair frizzing out crazily to either side of his head. He blurted the first words that came into his head.

"I...I...I'm sorry about your grandad, it was a real shame," he said. Immediately he cringed at his ridiculousness. Lavinia didn't seem to mind. She nodded, her bonnet dipping.

"Yes, it was," she agreed, her voice sad. For a long moment she was quiet, and Vincent followed her lead. After what he felt was a respectful pause, he cleared his throat gently.

"M-Miss Everglot," he said, "If I may ask...why aren't you at the funeral? Most of the village is there."

As soon as he asked the question he knew he'd said a dumb thing. How dare he? It was none of his business. He braced himself, prepared for Lavinia to tell him the same. But all she did was reach and lift up her veil, baring her face. Her lovely, round face, with those beautiful eyes. Despite the sad, hollow look in them, they were still beautiful. All Vincent wanted, in that moment, was to see those eyes sparkle.

"Death makes me sad," she said simply. "The cemetery upsets me terribly. Mother and Finis were afraid I would make a scene. I wouldn't have, I don't think...but it's not good for me to be upset."

"Oh," was all he could think to reply. As he looked at her drawn face, and considered her odd tone, he recalled those rumors that she'd been unwell. That she'd spent some time in a spa to the south. None of this put him off, though, not in the slightest. All he felt was an insane desire to help, to make her happy. And, hearing her speak for the first time, he truly felt that he could listen to her talk for the rest of his life.

"Also," Lavinia was saying, a shy note creeping into her voice, "I didn't want to miss you."

Had...had he heard her correctly? He couldn't have done. Vincent looked her shyly in the eye as deeply and as long as he dared, which wasn't very long at all. Eyes on the reins in his hands, he asked, "Miss...me? Y-you wanted...er...to see me?"

"I like to see you," she told him. A smile finally lit up her face, and Vincent couldn't help smiling back. "I look forward to Fridays. You're always so kind to nod to me. I am alone so very often...it's pleasant to have a kind of caller."

She'd noticed. Lavinia Everglot looked forward to his visits. This was mad, he was dreaming, this was all impossible.

"Ahem," came a voice. They turned to see the butler, nose in the air, standing on the portico. The French doors were open behind him.

"Miss Everglot," he said, "You are wanted inside." With that, he stepped smartly to one side and gave a little bow, extending an arm toward the mansion's gloomy interior.

"Thank you, Emil," said Lavinia. Her tone gave the impression of a dismissal, but the butler did not move. She turned back to Vincent, and their gazes locked.

"Pleasure to speak with you, Miss Everglot," said Vincent, touching the brim of his cap. He was pleased that his tone was a deferential and pleasant one, particularly because his brain was screaming, I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU OH HOW I LOVE YOU.

"With you as well, Mr. Van Dort," she replied.

"Perhaps I will see you again Friday next?" she asked in a low voice. Vincent had to work very hard not to float away, so light with happiness did he feel. Not only did she apparently enjoy speaking with him, not only was she speaking in a tone meant just for him, Lavinia Everglot wanted to see him again the following week. Him. Vincent Van Dort.

"Oh yes, Miss Everglot," he said, trying and failing to keep his voice low as well. He'd quite forgotten that he might have a new job by next week. And he didn't care. He'd deliver fish anyway. Catch it himself if he had to. He'd come sweep the street in front of her house just to see her again. "I'll even bring trout."

They smiled at one another, and a little spark seemed to fill the space between them. That same sort of jolt that came with touching a doorknob in winter, after one had scuffed one's feet against a carpeted floor. Was it Vincent's overheated imagination, or did Lavinia lean ever so slightly closer, her lips ever so slightly parted, as if to speak again...? From behind them Emil cleared his throat noisily, making Vincent start a bit. As if on a signal they each took a step backward. With the dropping of Lavinia's veil came the feeling that a deep connection had just been broken.

"Goodbye," Lavinia said softly. From behind the heavy veil only the barest hint of the outline of her face was visible. But it did look as though she was smiling. Vincent could only grin, and nod.

He watched her turn and disappear into the gloom of the mansion, careful to take in every last swish of her black skirts, every flutter of her veil. The butler gave a sniff, and met Vincent's eye with a withering and disapproving look. Vincent, still overcome, could only keep grinning.

Next week. Friday next. Lavinia. She wanted to speak with him again. He'd bring trout.

The distant clanging of the crier's bell brought him back to himself. Hastily he rearranged his features into something more sober. It was a day of mourning, after all. It wouldn't do to be seen smiling wide as a harlequin on such a day.

"Easy, Peony," Vincent said, having to tighten his grip on the reins as she sidestepped. "I'll go secure that herring for Miss Plum, and we'll head on, all right?"

In the back of the wagon Vincent, humming a little tune, pulled on his work gloves. The ice kept things nice and chilly in the back of the delivery wagon.

CLANG CLANG.

The crier must be nearly on top of them. Vincent heard Peony whinny, and the wagon tilted a little. He'd have to get back out there before she reared or bolted.

"Internment completed!" came the crier's call. "Mourning party returning! Reception to follow! Hear ye!"

The noise proved too much for poor Peony. She whinnied again, and the sound of her hoofbeats on the cobblestones as she reared twice were plainly audible. When the wagon lurched, Vincent lost his balance and fell to the floor, hitting the back of his head, hard, against one of the icebox compartments. Dazed, he gingerly touched the sore, stinging back of his head. His fingers came away wet, and he winced to see blood glistening on his fingertips. He must have hit the sharp edge of the latch just right.

The carriage jolted again, and Vincent jolted with it. A creak from above made him look up. A few chips of ice dripped and fell around him. Before he could move out of the way, the ten-pound block of ice that had been keeping the herring cool followed. Instinctively he put up an arm to shield himself, but it didn't do any good.

0—0

"Bly me, a fresh one!"

Vincent's eyes snapped open. He was lying on his back in the middle of the square. The sky above him was dark, and someone had strung up colored lights. He must have been out for a while. Two faces leaned over him. The evening light made the men's faces appear blue.

"All right there, lad?" asked the same voice that had spoken earlier. It belonged to the man with the enormous chin and handlebar mustache. Vincent nodded, surprised when he felt no pain. With ease he sat up, the men leaning over him stepping back a bit to give him room.

"I'm j-just fine, sir," he replied, checking the back of his head again. He felt no wet blood this time. And, oddly, no sting at all. "Thank you for-"

Vincent froze, mouth agape. Slowly he looked from face to face. These were faces he knew. In a village the size of the one they resided in, there were few faces one didn't know. These were faces he wasn't supposed to see ever again.

"B-but you're...you've been...you're dead, sir! Sirs!" he cried, scrambling to his feet. "Both of you died!"

"Well, what of it?" asked the late General Elvstead, twirling his mustache and looking Vincent up and down. "You're dead, too."

"Don't make a spectacle of yourself, boy," added the recently deceased Lord Everglot. For that was who the second man was, Vincent saw now. Periwig and all. Death had hollowed his eyes a bit, but he still looked more or less the same as he had the last time Vincent had seen him being wheeled about the square. At least here he could walk on his own again.

Vincent opened and closed his mouth a few times. Fear was rising within him. Glancing around frantically, he knew they were right. This was a strange perversion of the village square he knew. Tilted and dark and crawling with spiders and purple and green lights and empty coffins everywhere and the statue was a skeletal horse and there went a half-rotted corpse pushing a wheelbarrow and nothing was where it was supposed to be and neither was he and this was all wrong.

It was then Vincent learned that the dead cannot faint. For some strange reason this was a comfort, but a comfort that left him deflated.

"It...it was just herring on ice," Vincent said, his voice feeble. He cradled his head in his hands. "It...it's not possible, I can't be. I'm dreaming. Soon I'll wake up, and this will all have been a nightmare."

"Denial," said Lord Everglot wisely, and Elvstead nodded. "I'll catch you up, Elvs-er, Vitgenshtein. Order us a dry sherry, will you?"

Elvstead, or Vitgenshtein, walked away, leaving Lord Everglot and Vincent together by the statue. Bones creaked as the dead horse turned to look down at Vincent. With a pang he was reminded of Peony. He'd never see her again. Vincent sank to the ground.

Over. Life was over, over. Finished. After a mere twenty-five largely useless years, Vincent Van Dort was finished. Just when his life was starting to seem not quite so useless after all. To seem as though there was at least the hope of a new start.

And Lavinia. Lavinia Everglot might have loved him. At least a little. And now he'd lost her forever.

Once, Vincent wouldn't have thought it possible for a dead heart to break, to be ripped in half and then to shatter to pieces. But it was possible. Everything he'd lost seemed represented by Lavinia's face, as she'd smiled at him, told him that she looked forward to his visits. Rage, a relatively foreign emotion for Vincent, tore and gnashed its way through him. Even he was surprised by the force of it. Before he could think, before he could stop himself, he raised a fist and threw a wild punch at the base of the statue. He heard a finger break, but didn't feel it, so he reared back and punched again.

"Now then, that's a bit much," said Lord Everglot, his voice a disapproving grumble.

"But it isn't fair!" he shouted, his voice sounding strangled and tight. He'd never so much as raised his voice in life. Especially not to Lord Everglot. But who cared now? If only he'd been able to stay, if only he'd gotten to know Lavinia better...he might have been part of the family.

If only...if only. If only he'd had a little more time.

"Please!" Vincent begged, falling to his knees before a befuddled looking Lord Everglot. "Please, your Lordship, there must be something you can do. Just a little more time, please. I need to be alive again. Just for a little while. Just to...just to...talk to someone. I promise, it won't be long." Frantic and desperate, he grabbed Lord Everglot's hand in both of his own, begging on his knees.

Embarrassed, Lord Everglot glanced around at all of the skeletons who'd gathered on the edges of the square to watch the show. "You're embarrassing yourself, boy, get up," he said, trying to pull his hand away. But Vincent didn't let go.

"I promise, your Lordship!" he said. "Please help me, I'll owe you...well, not my life, but my death. I don't know. Anything. Anything you like. Just please tell me how to get back to the living, just for a little while. I swear to you that's all I need."

Lord Everglot managed to free his hand with an almighty wrench. He stepped out of Vincent's range. Something almost like pity seemed to cross his features as he adjusted his periwig. "Nothing will help. You've died. That's all there is to it. My condolences, but there is nothing to be done."

There were murmurs of both pity and agreement from the assembled dead. All Vincent could do was kneel there on the ground, watching a little parade of worms and maggots squirm their way across the cobblestones. Lord Everglot's words rung in his head. His Lordship was right. An impossible fool, that's what Vincent Van Dort was. Even in death. Vincent buried his face in his hands. He felt empty. No more anger, no more despair. No feelings at all. It was as though his heart, useless and unbeating now, was gone.

"What's the point?" he said in a monotone to no one in particular. He heard footsteps and voices as the crowd dispersed, off to find more interesting things. Not that Vincent cared. "What was the point? What was all of that for, just to die? Why did I bother?"

Lord Everglot gave a grumble, as if to speak, but Elvstead's voice broke in just then.

"Plowing right through the process, eh?" he asked. Peeking through his fingers, Vincent watched him hand Lord Everglot a sherry glass filled with a purple fizzing liquid. Elvstead kept a stein for himself, and hoisted it to his mouth. Wiping yellow foam from his mustache, he regarded Vincent there on the ground.

"Must be a record, I'd say," he said. "At this rate you'll be at acceptance before you know it...Van Dort, isn't it? The fishmonger?"

At that, Lord Everglot nearly spat out the sip of his drink he'd just taken. Vincent and Elvstead stared as he collected himself. "Not Vincent?" he asked slowly. Wondering, but lacking the energy to be fearful, Vincent nodded.

For a long moment Lord Everglot and Vincent stared at each other. Then, abruptly, Lord Everglot quaffed the rest of his drink, adjusted his periwig, and turned to leave.

"Thank you," he grumbled to Vincent over his shoulder, "for brightening up my granddaughter's Fridays."

Without waiting for a response, Lord Everglot walked away, swiftly disappearing into a doorway beneath a rickety sign shaped like a death's head, which read Ball and Socket Pub. Vincent gaped, his dead brain swirling with questions. Elvstead took a draw from his stein. Much to Vincent's embarrassment, he then tipped a sly wink.

"'Brightening up her Fridays,' eh?" he asked, and Vincent wanted to die. Again. Elvstead only chuckled.

"Meet us in the pub, if you've a care," he said, starting off the way Lord Everglot had gone. "My missus plays quite a polka." And he winked once more.

Vincent sat there on the ground, staring off into the middle distance. Skeletons came and went, some offering greetings. But Vincent hardly noticed them. Lavinia had cared. Enough that her grandfather knew. And her grandfather didn't mind. With the clarity death seemed to bring, Vincent knew Lord Everglot only didn't mind because they were dead. It didn't seem to matter much.

But what did matter was that he'd had an impact. A tiny one, but still. Monsieur Paul and Miss Plum had wanted to work with him. Peony had depended on him. Vincent Van Dort had been liked.

Vincent Van Dort had brightened up Lavinia Everglot's Fridays. Somehow, from here on the ground in the land of the dead, that seemed to be worth quite a lot. His only regret was that he wouldn't be able to do it again. He hoped, desperately, that his death wouldn't upset her too much. She was delicate, after all. It was too bad there wasn't much he could do from down here. Except follow Lord Everglot's lead. It seemed the best, indeed only, thing to do at the moment.

Nodding to himself, Vincent pulled himself to his feet, and made off for the pub.


	10. Chapter 10

Wellington and Bonesapart

"Will you just look at this beauty!" exclaimed General Sutherland. He fixed his monocle more securely over his dicky eye so that he could have a proper look at the new prize being wheeled into position. Sutherland had spent all morning clearing the spot. He'd chosen carefully—a nice level bit of ground well outside the village wall, tucked round the very back and hemmed in by the forest. A nice little clearing. From here one could just make out the church spire over the trees. All was safely removed from the village proper.

Just the way he wanted it. Sutherland grinned a private little grin and smoothed his mustache.

"Money well spent!" agreed General Adrin, handing over a tip to the man who had done the delivery, with the aid of a stout pair of oxen. "Especially for those brand-new wheels! Not to mention the new carriage mount."

Most of the money for this most recent acquisition had come from Adrin's funds. The pair of them enjoyed their military antiques. Scouting, bargaining, and purchasing was a hobby for Adrin and a matter of near obsession for Sutherland. It was only fair to take the purchases in turns. Sutherland had paid for a centuries-old sword, and Adrin had put up the money for a like-new helmet dating from the 17th century. From Sutherland had come the handsome brace of pistols last month.

Those pistols really were beauties. A retirement gift to some forgotten officer, most likely. Still fired brilliantly, Sutherland had been pleased to find. Monsieur Paul, his landlord at the Tavern, had not been so pleased. Mostly because of the hole the bullet had left in the dining room wall. Sutherland didn't see a problem. In fact he felt Monsieur's ire a bit unwarranted. The hole wasn't large, after all. It gave the room character. And a damn good story. Adrin had offered to pay for the damage, but still Monsieur had decreed that there were to be no more antique weapons at the Tavern, on pain of a rent hike, and, even more harshly, a withdrawal of brandy rations. Sutherland had been dismayed and surprised by how willing Adrin seemed to be to agree to such a ridiculous ultimatum.

But who could have resisted a piece like this? A salvaged six-pounder, pulled from the briny deep and going for a song. A little green around the edges, perhaps, and the muzzle could do with a scrape, but all the same it was a coup. A real coup. Adrin had come round eventually, even though Sutherland had had to agree not to have the piece delivered inside village walls, to keep it quiet from Monsieur and Miss Plum, and to please, please not wear his uniform when they went to meet the deliveryman, as it would give the game away. On all points but the last Sutherland had given in.

The tiffs of the previous days were forgotten at the moment, however. Together Sutherland and Adrin turned to inspecting the cannon.

"Makes you think of the old days, doesn't it?" Sutherland said, clapping a hand on his friend's shoulder. Adrin, who was several heads shorter than Sutherland, had to take a step backward in order to look up at him.

"That it does," he agreed. "I haven't seen a gun like this in years."

Neither had Sutherland. Oh, how dearly he missed the military. Often he wished he'd never retired. Those days had been the very best of his entire life, and these antiques he collected let him relive the memories. Some might accuse him of living too much in the past, too much in his head—actually, most did. He drew more than a few odd looks for wearing his dress uniform when he was out and about. As far as he was concerned, why not fly the colors, as it were? The only one who understood, even if he didn't feel quite the same, was Adrin.

The pair of them were best friends. Comrades. Had been ever since they'd met at the military academy up north. It was just a shame that they'd been, by accident of birth and affiliation, on opposite sides during the actual war.

Real friends didn't let such trifles as that get in the way, though. They'd kept up a lively correspondence after the war, Sutherland never making mention or light of the fact that Adrin's side had lost. From their comfortable desk jobs they'd written back and forth for decades. When they'd retired—Adrin by happy choice, Sutherland by coercion—Adrin had proposed that they head off together. Both bachelors, both orphans, and now both on pensions, all they had was one another. So Sutherland had agreed. At Adrin's suggestion, they'd wound up relocating to a little village far from both of their home countries, in a tiny place that seemed hardly bothered by or interested in the wider world. Sutherland had never even heard of it. Apparently Adrin's unit had been encamped nearby the village many years before, and he'd become enamored of it. Why, Sutherland had no idea. And didn't feel it quite proper to ask, particularly now that the village had become as much his home as anywhere else had been.

"Yes, indeed," Sutherland said now, crouching as much as his old knees allowed to take a closer look at the charge. All was as it should be, just as he'd arranged with the dealer. Fire-ready condition. He stood and moved on to loving, careful inspection of the barrel. "Just like old times, Adrin. Inspecting the guns, readying the men..."

"Mm-hm," murmured Adrin. Sutherland spared him a quick glance. Adrin was standing next to one of the wheels, at ease with hands behind his back. The wheel was nearly a head taller than he was. "It's a handsome piece, isn't it? Nice for show."

Now it was Sutherland's turn to make a non-committal noise. "Mm-hm," he said. Even as he murmured his mind was busy with figuring trajectory, length of charge, and the clear path through the nearest copse of trees just ahead. No one about. No one ever used that little lane. Everyone took the road over the bridge, on the very opposite side of the village from where they were now. Perfect.

"Good morning!" came a voice from those self-same trees. Sutherland, very surprised, looked up. A young man, only in his early twenties, had appeared over the little hill which the lane took through the woods, and was making his way toward them. He was well-dressed and carrying a leather satchel.

"Good morning, Master Van Dort!" said Adrin, offering a cheery wave over the cannon's muzzle. Annoyed and trying to hide it, Sutherland raised one hand in greeting.

"Hel-lo," said William Van Dort, stepping right up to the cannon and looking it over. "What's all this, then?" Adrin opened his mouth to reply, but Sutherland was quicker.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked, a touch more forcefully than he'd meant to. Adrin gave him a look. Sutherland peered at William through his monocle. The last thing he'd expected today was to have someone come across them. How he hated having plans upset. Particularly when he'd spent so much time and care on them.

William was a chap seemingly impossible to bother. He made no note of Sutherland's tone, but grinned and tipped his top hat to each of the older men in turn. "On my way back from business at the coast," he explained, indicating his satchel, handsome brown checked suit, and best, if now rather dusty, leather shoes. "Quite a walk! The stage only goes so far."

"It's our latest acquisition," said Adrin kindly, answering William's earlier question. "A cannon. Six-pounder, salvaged from a shipwreck."

William gave a low, appreciative whistle. "Very nice. Cleaned up well. That's the ammunition, I take it?" As he said this last he indicated a small wooden crate underneath an oak tree, which Sutherland had placed this morning in advance of the cannon's delivery.

"Yes, indeed," Sutherland proudly replied, unable to help himself. "Gunpowder, charge, ramrod, and, of course, shot. All the necessaries."

As William nodded, Sutherland caught Adrin's eye. Adrin, his small eyes as wide as they could get, were fixed squarely on him. A dark kind of look came over his kindly old face as he blinked slowly up at Sutherland.

"You said that was the lunch Miss Plum packed," Adrin said in a low, accusatory tone. Sutherland shrugged.

"You're not going to try to fire this, are you?" William asked. He was kneeling in front of the cannon, peering down the barrel. "It looks nice, but if it's been underwater who knows what kind of condition it's in. It might explode and kill you both."

"Of course we're not going to fire it," said Adrin immediately, with a significant look at Sutherland. "It is purely for show. Won't even take it inside the village walls, just in case."

"Yes," Sutherland added, prompted by Adrin elbowing him in the leg. "Purely for show."

William nodded. Standing up again he took up his satchel and tipped his hat once more. "Well then, that is certainly good to know. I'd imagine Lord Everglot and his grandson might enjoy an invitation to see it. They enjoy their military antiques, as well. Good day, gentlemen!"

And with that, William dusted off his trousers and went on his way, taking the narrow dirt lane back into the trees, heading for the village.

The moment William had disappeared around the first bend and the coast was clear, Sutherland turned to Adrin. "All right, let's fire this off, General!"

With a confident stride that betrayed his almost boyish excitement, he made for the crate. He patted his jacket pocket, relieved to find he'd remembered the matches he'd knicked days ago from Miss Plum's kitchen.

"Sutherland!" Adrin protested, close to hopping with agitation, "It's not in firing condition! As Master Van Dort said-" Sutherland waved an impatient hand.

"Master Van Dort is just a boy," he replied, rattling his saber as he strode past Adrin. "I was dealing with gunnery years before he was even thought of."

With Adrin still sputtering behind him, Sutherland bent carefully and opened the crate. There was only one cannonball, but that was all he needed for now. Again he checked his planned trajectory. If all went according to plan, the shot would wind up deep in the forest well away from any people, roads, or buildings. Provided no other surprise travelers happened to be coming down the lane, of course.

"Come on, man, I need a second pair of hands," he said over his shoulder. Time had been when he could lug six-pounder shot about as though it was nothing. Not so anymore.

"Please, please be reasonable," Adrin pleaded. "It was underwater for who knows how long. The barrel is probably corroded. Look how green the bronze is, it's not stable-"

Sutherland was no longer listening. He was focused on loading the cannon. With a sigh Adrin gave up and bent to help him lift the shot. Together they loaded it, packing the gunpowder and ball down tightly, fitting the charge just so, their muscle memory seeming to take over. For a dizzy moment Sutherland could hear gunfire, smell the horses, hear the wheels of cannon being brought into place. He patted the muzzle as though it was a favorite dog.

He joined a troubled-looking Adrin at the back end of the gun. Sutherland grinned and put a hand on his friend's shoulder before striking the match and setting it to the fuse. Expectant, he watched it flame. Adrin pulled him back to a safer distance as the fuse burned down.

But when it had burned down completely, nothing immediately happened.

"What in blazes-?" Sutherland began, making to investigate, but Adrin threw out a short, ineffectual arm and cried,

"Take cover, I think it's going to-"

And then, with a low, deafening boom, the cannon exploded. Sutherland saw the back end blow first, beginning with the spark of the charge. The force splintered the wheels and mount. Adrin was knocked off his feet and rolled grotesquely, meatily, coming to a stop near the edge of the trees. Through the haze of smoke Sutherland could see blood beginning to seep out into the ground around where Adrin lay facedown in the dirt. Still.

"Oh..." was all Sutherland managed to say. It came out in a whisper. He'd seen carnage before, yes of course he had, had even seen guns go up with enough force to send debris thousands of yards. But in all his years, he'd never had a beloved friend be mowed down beside him. Never once.

Before he could move or speak or think any further, the rest of the cannon exploded. He could feel the heat even from here, felt hot pricks and slashes where shards of shrapnel hit him. The cannonball shot with explosive force out of the back of the gun, rather than through the largely destroyed barrel.

Then, a feeling like being punched in the chest. Cold, deep cold. A taste of blood, the acrid smoke in his nose. After that, it all went dark.

0—0

"Well," said Sutherland, "that didn't go quite as planned."

"No," agreed Adrin.

Together they sat, side by side on the edge of an overturned stone crypt. Sutherland had quickly taken in the fact that he had died. A military man made peace with mortality early on. One had to. Adrin seemed to be having a bit more trouble. Above them a half-toppled marble angel stood watch. Literally. Her marble eyes moved this way and that, surveying the area. Every now and again her wings would move, crunching and cracking. But she did not speak.

The veterans' section of the cemetery was a rowdy one. It had the air of an encampment. All around were monuments and memorials to the gallant fallen, the words more crisp and legible than they would have been above. In the distance there was a crooked little village, more sprawling and with more rooftops than in the land of the living. Above all stood a rickety-looking tower, glowing from within with a purplish lamplight. Corpses who'd seen battles of nearly a century past, judging by their swords and muskets and sabers, milled about and traded stories. It must have been the villagers who banded together to bury both him and Adrin, as neither of them had any relatives. Sutherland was touched and surprised in equal measure by the gesture.

Adrin didn't look too bad, considering. One of his eyes had been knocked in by the blast, and shrapnel had shredded most of the flesh on his face. He'd been buried in his dress uniform, still clean and pressed as the day he'd removed it for the final time in life. That would've been Miss Plum, no doubt. She'd even remembered the hat.

Sutherland had died with his boots on, as it were, and whoever had prepared him had left him in the clothes he'd died in, ghastly wound showing and all. Fitting. He didn't really have much nicer clothes, anyhow. He'd been pleased to find his helmet beside him in his coffin, and his saber still by his side. No antique dealers would be getting his treasures.

A row of snappily outfitted skeletons, all with mismatched weapons and a few with rusty buckets on their heads instead of helmets, marched past them just then. Bringing up the rear was a skeleton who wore tatters of the old Prussian uniform.

"Old soldiers never die," said the leader, whose moth-eaten uniform bore the insignia of a lance-corporal.

"They merely fade away!" came the chorus reply from the rows of dead soldiers.

Even as Sutherland grinned, Adrin gave a morose little sigh.

"Oi, there, Wellington!" came a cry from the ranks. "Yes, you! Sittin', with the helmet!"

"I'm sorry?" Sutherland asked, turning. A staggering corpse, clearly quite drunk, had broken rank and was making his way toward them. His voice was young, tinged with the country accent Sutherland had grown up with, but he was a skeleton. Only his eyeballs, permanently bloodshot, remained, along with most of his uniform. Private, Sutherland recognized immediately. The dead private neared, a flask in one hand.

"And look!" the corpse slurred, waving his flask at Adrin. "You're with your friend Bonaparte." What with the slurring, it came out sounding more like "Bones-apart."

"Ah, no," said Adrin, sounding wary. He hopped down and stood before the dead soldier, holding his hands up before him in a palms-out gesture of deference. Sutherland stood as well. "We were only officers under those men. We aren't-" But the drunk wasn't listening.

"You two," he ranted on, weaving this way and that. "You two and your dirty fight. I wasn't finished! I wasn't finished yet, you blasted...you blurry...!"

The drunk corpse dropped his flask and threw a punch, falling ridiculously short. Adrin took a step out of the way so as not to be fallen on when the corpse went down.

By this time the rest of the dead had become aware of what was happening. As the drunk heaved himself back to his feet they gathered round to watch. The Prussian was front and center, and moved to stand in between Adrin and the drunk. Sutherland recognized the tactic from his own days of dealing with rowdy recruits.

"You, sir," the Prussian said with distaste as the skeleton scooped up his flask, "are a disgrace to the uniform." There were murmurs and nods in the crowd.

"I'll give you a disgrace!" the drunk shouted, sounding the most coherent he had yet. He pulled a rusty saber from the grasp of a surprised skeletal onlooker, and thrust it at the Prussian. Unfortunately he was slow and stumbling, so he aimed too low. The Prussian stepped easily out of the way. Still more unfortunately, Adrin happened to still be standing right behind him, and was not that quick.

Adrin gasped in surprise when the saber sank into his middle. Gasps and exclamations were heard from the other dead men. Even the drunk seemed to sober slightly, and look a bit shocked at himself. The moment passed quickly, however.

"Serve you just right," the drunk muttered. Then he glared at Sutherland, and said with a sneer in his voice, "And same to you, too."

"Why that impudent...we should have a court martial," fumed Sutherland as the private stumbled away, headed toward the lights of the village. "Assaulting a superior officer! Are you quite all right, my friend?"

"Fine," replied Adrin. He turned this way and that, inspecting the saber, the blade of which was sticking out of his back. He'd been run clean through. Lucky thing he couldn't bleed, otherwise his uniform would be even more spoiled.

"Some just weren't cut out for soldiering," said the saber's owner, a mid-size skeleton with a beard miraculously still intact. "Keep that saber, if you like. It's a real antique!"

Sutherland couldn't help himself, and bent to inspect the saber. It was a mercy he was beyond feeling much. And the bearded corpse was quite right—this saber was at least two hundred years old.

"Just look at the detail on that handle!" Sutherland said, running his finger along it. Much to his surprise, Adrin took two pointed strides away from him.

"Poor fellow," Adrin said. He was looking off in the direction where the drunk soldier had gone. From his tone Sutherland could tell that his friend felt nothing but pity for the drunk. Sutherland would have been dueling already, if it had been him.

"You're too kind for your own good," Sutherland told him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't I know it," Adrin replied. Sutherland frowned, not liking Adrin's tone. Adrin never spoke to him like that.

"Look, they're forming up again," Sutherland said, friendly and coaxing. He wanted to make his friend feel better.

"If it's all right, I rather fancy a drink," replied Adrin, taking a step away and gently removing Sutherland's hand. "Maybe a little...time to think. You know?"

"But they're mustering the troops!" Sutherland said, waving an arm toward the rows of corpses who had reassembled and were standing at attention. He drew his sword. "Come on, old man, you always loved a good muster!"

"No," replied Adrin, sounding quiet and tired. "You did."

Sutherland was far too taken aback to reply. He dropped his sword-arm to his side and stared.

"Well, come now," he finally blustered, blustering being his very last defense. "We've all got to go sometime. I know I made my peace with it years ago. Hard not to, on a battlefield. Come on, then."

There was a long silence. Adrin stared up at him with his now mis-matched eyes, his expression coldly sad. The angel flexed her wings. When he glanced up, Sutherland saw the angel was staring directly at him. His unbeating heart seemed to seize under that gaze.

In a voice low enough to match his spirits, Sutherland said, "I'm very sorry, my friend. This was my fault. I beg your forgiveness. I...I'm sorry."

Adrin's expression did not change. "Thank you," was all he said before he turned and walked away, stopping only briefly to ask a loitering corpse the direction of the nearest pub.

Sutherland adjusted his monocle, even though his eye worked just as well as the other now. He watched as Adrin grew smaller in the distance, until even his hat could no longer be seen. Looking back, he saw the rows of dead soldiers in their tattered uniforms, some whole, some not. Some skeletal, some fresh. Some wounded, some not. All of them spending eternity going through motions so ingrained they couldn't help but feel unmoored without them. He thought of the drunk, really thought, and found a bit of pity for him.

Perhaps a drink was just the thing. With a decisive nod Sutherland replaced his sword, smoothed his mustache, and followed in the direction his friend had gone.


	11. Chapter 11

Alfred

Alfred settled back in his chair and picked up his favorite long-necked pipe from its piperest on the spindly side-table. He packed the bowl with his favorite cut, and then lit it. When he puffed, sweet-smelling smoke wreathed around his head. Today the smoke was going to his head a bit. Alfred blinked slowly, once, twice, and then cleared his throat. He breathed deep before taking another puff on his pipe.

Already his lap felt cold and empty. These visits with his great-niece were far too fleeting. It was a shame, he thought, and not for the first time, that he and Gertrude had never had any children. His lap, at least, seemed suited for it. For now it was enough to pretend, on Hildegarde's one half-day off a month, that Victoria was his little girl. His and Gertrude's. Always lovely to see sweet old Hildegarde, as well.

Yes, far too easy. To make believe, for the space of an hour, that life hadn't unfolded the way it had. To imagine he and Gertrude had lived here all their married life, that Hildegarde had stayed with them, that Victoria was their daughter, that Gertrude's brother and his wife were still alive, that Emily still came to call. That Maudeline was happy. Odd, all this imagining. Alfred could concede that he was an old romantic, but he wasn't all that fanciful. These elaborate what-ifs were his exception.

From his parlor window he had a nice view of the street. If he leaned just so he could see the edge of his house's front stairs. When he leaned, he felt an odd little twinge near his breastbone that made him wince. He massaged it until it passed, even as he watched Hildegarde and Victoria make their way down the steps and into the lane. Victoria, her fat brown curls showing under her little hat bedecked with a fine big bow, turned around and looked at him there in the window. She smiled that shy little smile which lit up her eyes, and raised her fingers in a little wave. Alfred returned the gesture, sending her off with a salute.

"Sneaking away as if they were thieves," said Gertrude. Alfred looked to find her beside his chair, back from seeing Hildegarde and Victoria out. She too was gazing out the parlor window. Indeed, Hildegarde was scurrying Victoria along at a good clip toward the square. They disappeared down a little alley. Plainly they were going to approach the Everglot mansion from the back. Just in case.

Gertrude sighed, and Alfred reached to put his arm around her waist. She perched herself on the armrest, and added, "They must get back before Maudeline and Finis do. Hildegarde was having kittens over it. You should have seen her, keeping one eye on the drawing room clock the entire time we were together."

"Well, you remember what a to-do Maudeline made last year, when she found out Hildegarde was bringing Victoria here," said Alfred. Then, he chuckled. "Good thing Hildegarde has always been tougher than she looks, eh?"

He tapped the stem of his pipe against his teeth. Maudeline seemed to think she was too good for them now. An Everglot in a middle-class villager's home! Or perhaps, more likely, she thought that Victoria might pick up bad habits, bad ideas, merely from being in his and Gertrude's presence. In their house. Alfred wasn't sure. He'd got Maudeline's words third-hand from Gertrude, who had been railing and frothing and not making too much sense as she told him what Maudeline had said.

"After all we did for her," Gertrude said now, more resigned than angry. She slid from her perch on the armrest into the chair next to Alfred, half on his lap and all curled up against him. Still as nimble as she'd been at twenty. Alfred did love it. He shifted a bit to make room, and put an easy arm around her as she went on, "Maudeline wouldn't even be Lady Everglot if it weren't for us."

"Ah, what's done is done," Alfred said, taking a draw on his pipe and doing his best to blow the smoke away from Gertrude. "You never know, she might come around, once she...when...Well. She might come around."

Gertrude let the statement hang without replying. Alfred sensed he was being thought a bit of a fool. He cleared his throat again.

"Victoria is the spitting image of Hedda, isn't she? More every day," Gertrude remarked. Then her face darkened. "Let us hope the resemblance is only in looks."

"Oh, she's a plucky little thing," said Alfred, eager to banish bad thoughts. He bussed Gertrude on the cheek. "She takes after you. She's got that same spark as you, Buttercup." Gertrude snorted.

"Precisely what Maudeline's afraid of, I think," she replied. Still, she sounded pleased, even when she added, "Please, dear, put your pipe down if you want to kiss me. The smoke is awful, I've told you so before."

So she had. Ever obedient, Alfred set the offending pipe in the crystal ashtray before kissing her again. In Alfred's opinion, the real worry was that Victoria would end up like Maudeline, rather than Maudeline's mother. Not the troubles, no, there was no way such a thing would ever happen under the Everglot roof. But rather, the hardness. The coldness. That clinging unhappiness which nothing, no matter how wild and desperate, could lift. He and Gertrude had arrived too late to help her, it seemed. And now she was quite beyond them. Alfred didn't want to let Victoria get that far away.

At any rate, Alfred didn't think any harm would be done if Victoria were to end up a woman like his Gertrude. Quite the opposite. Alfred told Gertude so.

"Of course you would think so," she told him with a small laugh. She reached up and smoothed down his mustache, first one side, and then the other. An old, familiar, coquettish gesture which never lost its charm. "You're rather biased."

"Oh, it was a story, though," he said, catching her hand and kissing down her arm as he went on, "The village still talks. Escapes through windows, jilted fiances, meetings in the middle of the night..."

"Scandal," finished Gertrude, in an eerie imitation of their niece's newfound aristocratic diction. "It might be catching, we wouldn't want Victoria exposed."

The laugh they shared was tinged with regret. They were both quiet, then, cuddled together in the armchair, looking out of the parlor window. Thinking of his and Gertrude's rather unorthodox courtship and marriage made him think of Emily Van Lynden, the sweet girl who used to live next door. The parlor's smaller side window faced the house next door, shut up and vacant for quite a while now.

Emily had up and run away with some stranger nearly five years ago. Hardly anyone in town had even seen him, never mind met him. Alfred had only been vaguely aware of his presence. Someone or other had mentioned a young man who'd narrowly escaped that dreadful train crash, and was roughing it out in the pine woods outside the village. Nothing too odd in that, even if it happened rarely. Sometimes monied young men with an inclination toward poetry or naturalism made camp in the woods, stayed for a while without much bothering the villagers, and then moved on again.

Word had been that he'd called upon Finis and Maudeline, but they had been away. At the country house with a brand-new Victoria, if Alfred recalled correctly. The chap had blown in on a Monday morning, swept Emily up, and the pair of them had disappeared not two days later. Gertrude had been the only one Emily had confided in. Gertrude, in turn, had confided in him. By the time Alfred had decided to go next door and speak to Emily's father, it was too late. Emily had gone. She'd taken her mother's jewelry and wedding dress, and most of the gold in the family safe. No note, no word. Emily's father had gone not long after. Back to his home village, Alfred assumed. The house next door had been shuttered ever since.

Often he wondered what had become of her. There was no way they could come back. Not easily, at any rate. He and Gertrude had left for nearly thirty years, and even then they were greeted with gossip and cool shoulders upon their return. But surely...surely she'd write, when she could. Newly married life was busy and selfish. She might even have children. That's what Alfred chose to believe. It was an easy thing to pretend. Emily happy and well-cared for, in love and building a life for herself.

Alfred held Gertrude even tighter. For all of his imaginings, his what-ifs, Alfred wasn't dissatisfied. He had Gertrude. She was really all he needed. When he kissed her this time, it was on the mouth. She managed longer than she usually did before pulling away, unable to keep from making a face.

"I'm sorry, darling, but that taste!" she said. "It's as if I've put my mouth in a tobacco tin."

Alfred, far too old and wise to be offended, pulled her closer, and said, "Tinned tobacco? No, this is my particular blend. Here, taste again."

But before he could press his mouth to hers again, Alfred was brought up short by a sharp pain in his chest. It felt as though a hot bullet had ripped into his heart. Alfred, a veteran of Afghanistan the first time around, knew what a hot bullet felt like. The shock and suddenness of the pain made him gasp.

"Alfred, are you quite all right?" Gertrude asked, sobering and sitting up immediately. She looked at him closely. "You look pale. And you're perspiring."

"Warmth of the day, my dear," he assured her, pulling his handkerchief from his inner pocket and dabbing at his forehead. Even as he spoke, however, he was aware that his luncheon seemed to be trying to crawl its way back up from his stomach, and had paused in a burning lump somewhere near his breastbone.

"You go have a lie-down, dear, you don't look well at all," Gertrude said, taking his arm and leading him out to the hall. Alfred let himself be led, grateful for her steadying hand on his arm. Of a sudden he felt a touch dizzy, just as he had with his pipe earlier. He'd assumed then it was the smoke...

The trip upstairs seemed to take more of his breath away than it usually did, and he was still struggling to get his wind when he stepped into the bedroom. Head swimming and his jaw throbbing, Alfred sat down on the edge of the bed to rest.

Perhaps he was merely showing his seventy years. Not only had climbing the stairs made him short of breath, it had also made his heart beat uncomfortably hard and fast. With effort, and breathing hard, Alfred took his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the sweat on his forehead. Relax. He had to relax.

He loosened his tie and collar, slipped off his house slippers, and lay down on the bed, easing himself carefully back against the many feather pillows that Gertrude favored. If anything, the change in position made the burning pain in his chest a bit worse, but he breathed deeply and assumed it would pass. Closing his eyes, Alfred tried to rest, to ignore the pain in his jaw and the way his heart refused to settle. A bitter taste filled Alfred's mouth, and a fresh wave of pain made him open his eyes and sit up. Heart beating wildly, painfully, his left arm numb, he made a grab for the bellpull, intending to ring for one of the servants. His reach fell short, and after that it seemed too much effort to move.

As his vision grew blurry, then dark, he thought of Gertrude that early morning they'd sneaked off to wed, a vision as clear as if he'd been transported back in time. And after that, his mind went blank, his thoughts seemingly borne away on another wave of pain.

0—0

Alfred was still numb when he opened his eyes. Only now the numbness had spread to his entire body. He couldn't feel a thing. At least the pain was gone. Apart from being numb and tad disoriented, he felt fit as a fiddle. Better than he had in years. Right as rain after a rest, just as he'd thought.

The room was still dark. Quite dark. Alfred decided it must be very late indeed. He reached out an exploratory hand to see if Gertrude was next to him. His hand, though, didn't get very far. Only an inch or so, and then he bumped up against something. Exploring further, he found he was flat on his back, boxed in. Above him, he realized now, was not the darkness of a room. It was the inside of a lid. Filled now with a dread certainty, he pushed the lid open.

Alfred sat up so fast he expected to be lightheaded. But he felt nothing. Of course not. Looking around, he saw that he was just where he'd expected that he would be. In a grave, in the cemetery. Though this cemetery was much different from ones he'd seen in life. Here the tombs and headstones all looked fresh, no matter how old. Many were decorated with colored lights or elaborate bone displays. The coffin in which he sat was set upon the ground, rather than six feet beneath it. In actual fact, the way the coffins were set up, rows and rows of them, made them look rather like lounge chairs at a resort. Above most of them were headstones of different shapes and sizes, bearing the occupant's name. Looking up, Alfred saw that his was the same. A peaked one of marble, decorated with a death's head, bearing the name WADLEIGH in old-fashioned script. And next to his coffin sat a vacant one. The lid was open, and there was a little card set upon the satin pillow. "RESERVED," it read.

For a long moment he looked at Gertrude's waiting coffin. The only thought that would come to mind was that the management had put him on the wrong side. He always slept on the right. It wouldn't do to be backward for eternity. He glanced at his headstone again.

"Blast it all," he said quietly. "I wasn't finished yet."

"Oh, you're finished," said a cheery little voice from above him. "I'm afraid you don't get to decide!"

Alfred looked up to see a good-sized black spider lowering itself on a strand of spider silk from some point unknown. She (for the voice sounded female) seemed to come from out of the blue. The spider stopped, suspended in mid-air, so that she was at eye-level with him. This spider had very oddly human eyes.

"Hardly anyone is ever really finished," she added, her tone comforting. "But soon enough you'll adjust. It's really quite a natural thing, after all."

Alfred found himself quite unable to be comforted by these platitudes. The little spider seemed to take the hint, for she stopped talking. She lowered herself onto the edge of Alfred's coffin. Somewhere off in the distance a bell began to clang. Soon, a tiny little bell, the sort that might hang over a shop door, began to tinkle nearby. Alfred looked up and saw that the bell, jingling on its own, was hanging over his tomb. Elsewhere in the cemetery other bells were going off.

"Anyone to meet?" asked the spider. In response to Alfred's questioning look, she elaborated, "At the pub, dear. With all the bells going off everyone will know someone new is here. They'll all want to celebrate!"

"Celebrate?" Alfred echoed, not as surprised as he probably should have been. He'd been in the military, after all. Celebrations could, and did, break out at the oddest moments. Most of the time when you weren't even aware how badly a celebration was needed. A death party was probably along those same lines, he supposed.

"The only one I'd like to see just now is my wife," he said, looking at the empty space next to him. Had he really, just now, fleetingly wished his Buttercup was dead? He pushed the thought aside and turned away from the empty side of the plot. "She was the only one I ever celebrated with."

"Married, huh? I don't see a ring, dear," said the spider, crawling down his hand. Alfred only now noticed he'd turned a purplish sort of blue in death. The spider lifted his ring finger with her forelegs. She was quite right.

His wedding ring was gone.

For a moment he panicked. That little gold shackle hadn't left his finger in nearly forty-five years. He couldn't imagine having a hand without it. Quickly he patted his best plum-colored frock coat, felt about in the pockets, and peeked into his inner jacket pocket. While he didn't find his ring, what he did find very nearly made his dead eyes mist over.

Dear little Buttercup had buried him with his pipe. She'd taken his ring, but left him with his pipe. His Gertrude knew him very well. An inspection confirmed that she'd even filled it for him, and added a few matches for good measure.

Oh, poor, poor Gertrude. Alfred tried to picture her in mourning garb, and the image simply wouldn't come. Not Gertrude, whose favorite gown sported yellow and white stripes. Alone in their house, the rooms empty, the windows shut up and the mirrors covered. The knowledge of how tough and sweet she was comforted him a bit. Dearly he hoped she wouldn't end up one of those bitter old women always in black, hunching about being cantankerous and shaking her fist at people.

Whenever he'd imagined death, and during his time in Afghanistan he had imagined it plenty, Alfred had always imagined oblivion. And, always, he'd imagined Gertrude with him somehow. At the very least, he'd never contemplated being conscious of being without her. Now that he knew the afterlife was, well, much like life, he found it even more impossible to imagine being without Gertrude. Even when he was stationed in foreign parts, she'd come with him. They'd not been apart once since the morning they'd married.

How long would he have to wait to see her again?

"Well?" asked the spider, who was now perched on his shoulder. "Coming to the pub, then, or not?"

"Not, I'm afraid," Alfred replied, and hoisted himself out of his coffin, the spider still on his shoulder. He held out his hand, invitingly palm-up, to the spider. She took his hint and, with dainty spider-steps, walked onto his hand. He made to set her on the ground.

"Oh, no, no!" she said. Then she pointed with one of her forelegs. "Onto the bell, if you don't mind. I do love a good nestle in a dark place!"

Alfred, a gentleman, did as she asked. Once near the bell she crawled inside, curling herself into the hollow space. From within came an echoey little "Thank you!"

"My pleasure," Alfred said. With that he took his pipe from his pocket. The match he struck on his own headstone. Puffing reflectively, only lamenting a bit that there was very little sensual pleasure to pipe-smoking now, he walked through the graveyard.

To one side was the imposing Everglot mausoleum. Unlike its counterpart in the realm of the living, this one was all tilted angles. Festive lights were strung up between the columns, and the whole of it had an otherworldly sort of green glow.

The Everglots. Maudeline. Victoria. Victoria. Troubled, he took a long draw from his pipe, then tapped the stem against his teeth. Poor little Victoria. What would she do without him? He could only hope that he'd been right, that she was like his Gertrude. That she'd be able to take care of herself. To stay sweet and capable, no matter what came along. That Victoria Everglot would turn out a fine young woman.

"I had rather hoped to be there to see it," Alfred said, not aware he'd spoken aloud. He'd come to a stop by a very dead oak, all hollow and gray. "I wanted to see it."

"Captain Wadleigh?"

Startled, Alfred looked this way and that, and then finally turned to peer around the trunk of the oak. A face he hadn't seen in years, a familiar lovely face, was peering round at him in turn. He nearly dropped his pipe in shock.

"Captain Wadleigh!" Emily cried. She came around the tree to join him. He watched her approach. She was decked out as a bride, hair loose and flowing, a wreath of flowers holding her veil. The dress she wore was of a style he'd never seen before, perhaps several decades out of date. The more delicate bits, like her sleeves and collar, were already mostly rotted away. Several layers of skirt had gone, too. Emily was still very pretty, even with the blue cast of death, despite the fact that she was quickly losing flesh on her limbs and her neck. One side seemed to be going faster than the other, and was nearly down to bone.

And that wound. There was a dreadful hole in her side. The dress around it was tattered, still marked with blood. Alfred had to stop himself from putting an instinct-driven hand to it. It wasn't as if battlefield medical help would be any use now.

"Emily!" he managed, still agog. He took a step closer, and put a fatherly hand on her less-rotted shoulder. "I...My dear, I...I'm so terribly sorry."

All Emily did was clasp her hands before her and shrug her shoulders, tilting her head as she did so. It was a movement she'd often made in life. Usually girlish and endearing, here it made Alfred terribly sad. Emily wasn't supposed to be here.

"What happened to you?" Alfred asked. It was all he could think of. The glow left Emily's face, leaving her looking melancholy and troubled.

"I don't know," she said quietly. She touched the wound in her side. "Charlie was supposed to meet me, we were going to be married. But...he never came. Someone else did instead. At least I think so. It was dark...I was frightened. My jewelry. I'm...I don't like to think of it."

"No," said Alfred after a moment, "I wouldn't think so."

The poor thing. All this time, she'd been dead. Why had none of them thought to look? To think, she had suffered and died and now sat alone among the dead. No husband, no children, no life. Before Alfred could speak, apologize a million times for not doing more than he had for her, Emily spoke again.

"I was so sure he'd come back," she said, sounding so unbearably sad. "Though I'd have thought...I'd have thought he would have found me by now. That someone would have found me."

"By Jove, we should have," said Alfred, ashamed of himself. Shame which gave him a sense of immediacy and purpose. He knocked the ash from his pipe and stowed the pipe back where Gertrude had put it. He took Emily by one nearly fleshless elbow and made for the town gates, crooked and glowing ahead of them. "We'll alert the elders, girl. They'll find the cad that did this to you, don't you worry. And they'll find your Charlie—cad himself for leaving you, forgive me—and we'll get you properly buried."

"Captain Wadleigh," Emily interrupted, pulling her elbow free before taking one of his hands in both of hers. "That's very sweet. But it's too late for that." She smiled a sad smile.

Alfred watched as she walked—no, glided—back to her post by the oak tree. Gracefully she sat upon the ground, her skirts fanned out around her. Only now did Alfred notice the long tear in her skirt, from hem to hip. If his stomach had been alive it would have flipped, sickened and sad at the possible implications. Alfred shook the thought away. Emily, seemingly in her own world now, smoothed her skirts. With gentle fingers she picked up her rotting bouquet and set it in her lap.

"I was just on my way to find the pub. Do come with me," Alfred said, looking at her there, under that tree. "It's not good for you to be alone."

"I'm all right," Emily assured him. "This is where I belong. This is where he'll come looking for me. I don't like to leave."

From somewhere hidden and directionless came a new voice. This one was male, strange and distinctive and oddly echoing.

"I thought you said it was too late," said the voice. Emily, unperturbed, giggled a bit.

"For telling the elders Upstairs, silly," she replied, rolling her eyes. Alfred still had no idea to whom she was speaking. "But for true love, it's never too late."

Poor thing. She sounded so sure. So resolute. Alfred looked at his ringless hand, and then patted his pocket. One arm behind his back, he strode over to where Emily sat. As he neared she looked up and smiled.

"Do you know, I think I'd rather have a quiet sit here," he said. "If that's all right." Emily nodded and patted the ground next to her. Alfred sat down beside her, recalling all those many times they'd sat together over tea in the parlor. It was a bit like old times, if one could forget, a little, that one was dead. He took his pipe out again, glad there was still a bit of packed tobacco toward the bottom. Gertrude had left him a handful of matches, too. He struck one on the dead oak and lit his pipe.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" Alfred asked, ever the gentleman.


	12. Chapter 12

Scraps

Scraps had finally reached the point where he no longer wanted his people to see him.

He hurt too much. His fur was almost all gone. He didn't want to eat. Something deep in his bones was niggling at him. All he could be sure of was that it was time for him to go. To be out of the house.

Scraps waited until Victor finally had to leave. His master hadn't left his side in a very long time, and when he did so now he did it with sad eyes and lots of gentle petting. As soon as the door closed softly behind Victor, Scraps began to work to heave himself to his feet. After a very long, painful time, he made his way out of the kitchen, where Victor had made him a little bed near the biggest stove, and through his dog door out into the garden.

It had been a long time since he'd smelled fresh air. It was nice. This was the right thing to do. Pain radiated from his paw pads to his legs and up into his chest with every step he took. But past his dog house and through the gap in the fence he went, and from there up the alley to the square. Scraps wasn't sure where he was going, precisely. He'd know when he arrived. Soon enough he was panting. He was suddenly desperate to rest. By the time Scraps had hobbled to the corner of the cannery where Father spent all day, his paws couldn't carry him any further.

Near the familiar door he stopped to take a break. He sat hunched by the wall, leaning on it for support. A soft whine escaped him. His neck itched but he was too weak to lift a back leg to scratch. He'd already scratched most of his fur off, anyway. The rest had fallen out, all over the little bed Victor had made up for him, on the carpets, on the marble floors. Every once in a while a person would walk by, either passing him on their way across the square or stepping past him into the shop. Sometimes the people spared him a glance, which Scraps returned. Every once in a while, if he recognized a smell, he'd thump his tail in greeting. No one stopped to pet him. Victor was the only one who liked to pet him. Scraps whined again.

Despite everything, despite how far he'd come, Scraps wanted to see Victor one last time. Every instinct he had said to find somewhere dark to hide. To stay there. But he kept thinking of the hazy outline of Victor's blurry face, the timbre of his voice, the way he always smelled like ink and dirt and boy-sweat. He had to go home. Victor would be sad if he didn't. So Scraps, filled with new resolve, got to his feet. Panting, he looked this way and that, unable to focus. He couldn't catch a proper smell. Still, he began to walk across the square, weaving a little as he went.

Eventually, a dull fear cut through the pain and exhaustion. Scraps no longer knew where home was.

Tongue lolling, wanting so badly to lie down but fearing it would hurt too much, he slouched by the cool stone of the statue in the center of the square and tried to think as best he could. Big. Home was big. With steps out front. Slowly, aware that he was drooling on the cobbles, Scraps moved his head from side to side and tried to catch a familiar smell.

With difficulty, Scraps stood, steadied himself, and began to walk toward home. Or it looked like home, anyway. Big stairs, big house, next to the cobblestones. Different smell, but perhaps his senses were deceiving him. Scraps knew he wasn't well, after all. Around the back of the house he went, headed for the fenced-in garden. In his current state he didn't think he could manage the big stairs. Besides, Scraps wasn't allowed in the front rooms of the house. His little doghouse in the garden would do. The familiar bed and the familiar smell and the cozy seclusion would be just the place.

Just the place to lie down for a little while. Sleep. All Scraps wanted was to sleep.

Panting and drooling again, feet aching and vision just as fuzzy as his mind, Scraps let his muscle memory lead him to the gap in the fence he always used, the one he'd used earlier. Victor had broken off a bit of loose plank to make a little dog-door for him so that he could get in and out of the garden. Not that Scraps made a habit of wandering about without Victor. Scraps was a good dog. When he got to where he thought the gap was, though, he only met hard fence. Again he bumped, yelping when the impact caused him pain.

Desperate, Scraps leaned as hard as he could against the fence. He didn't know what else to do. Where was his missing plank? The wrongness of the smell of the garden was getting to him. He was so mixed-up. With a whine and a grunt Scraps sat heavily. He leaned against the fence, now noticing that this one was made of iron instead of wood. Scraps closed his eyes and whined again, knowing that he needed some help. He hadn't the strength to bark.

Dimly he caught approaching footsteps from the other side of the fence. Light steps that came along with a swish and rustle. Different from Victor's steps. A different smell, too. Scraps turned his head and blinked up at the human approaching him.

He recognized that it was a girl. Even Scraps could tell the different kinds of people apart. Yes, this was definitely a human like Mother. But she was younger. Her voice was higher-pitched and her step was lighter. He couldn't place her smell at all. Sniffing, he considered. She smelled like old flowers and the trunk where Victor kept his sweaters. Beneath that was the sweetish smell of girl-sweat, different from a boy's. Scraps didn't think he'd ever seen her before.

The girl, with some difficulty, threw the latch and pulled open the gate a bit farther down the fence. Swiftly she walked over to him, making little noises in her throat which didn't sound like words. Just sympathy. Scraps wagged his tail, limply, to show that he was a good dog. The girl leaned down and said something. Slowly, carefully, the girl reached out a hand. He didn't understand her words, but her tone was nice. Something about her gave Scraps a good, safe feeling. With as much strength as he could muster he pressed his nose into her hand and let her pet his head. If only he could tell her somehow that he wanted to go home. Suddenly he was too tired and pained to sit up any longer. The last thing Scraps felt was the girl's arms catch him as he started to wobble.

Things got a little hazy after that. His vision was all blurry and he couldn't seem to stop drooling. The girl, muscles straining and panting herself, managed to carry him into the big house. Back through the gate she went, past a mostly dead and empty garden, and through a heavy door. He jostled with every quick step she took. He jostled even more when she pulled open the door. Unable to help himself, he whined. The girl murmured to him soothingly, but it didn't really help. Aching, Scraps was quiet and still as the girl carried him as gently as she was able through a big, dusty kitchen, and then through a pair of swinging doors into a cavernous room. It was shadowy and gloomy, a bit smaller than home and not as clean and bright. It was musty.

Shaking a bit with exertion, the girl managed to set Scraps down on the hard, cold floor. Scraps yelped when he landed, having been set down a bit too heavily. Pain shot up through his legs again, and didn't want to stop. The girl murmured again, petting his head, and then stepped away. Stay, please, she said, and then something else. As good a dog as ever, and too tired to move much besides, Scraps obeyed. With tiny, quick steps the girl disappeared through a doorway, leaving him quite alone. Scraps sighed and lay down, enjoying the cool of the floor against his belly. He was so tired. Looking about as best as he was able, Scraps saw the girl had set him down beside a big fireplace with a little fire burning in it. Scraps watched the flames and listened to the crackling. He blinked heavily.

Suddenly the girl was there again. She was leaning close, so he could see her quite clearly. When she smiled and spoke, Scraps caught"poor dog" and "sick" and "good boy." Scraps sighed, the movement paining him. He'd heard the first two phrases a lot lately. The girl had brought a big basket, like the sort Scraps had liked to play in when he was a littler dog. Inside was a neatly folded blanket. The girl set it down by the fireplace and patted it. Here, dog, said the girl, her voice gentle. She helped Scraps to his feet and into the basket, where he more collapsed than lay down. He curled up as much as he was able as the girl sat on the floor beside him.

Scraps began to pant. Everywhere hurt. The girl was petting him. Around his face was all right, but then she started to gently stroke his sides. That hurt. A low growl came from his throat, and the girl quickly pulled her hand away. Immediately Scraps felt bad. He wasn't a bad dog. He hadn't meant to growl. He hadn't been able to help it. In contrition, he tried to find her fingers to lick by way of apology.

She must have understood his meaning, for the girl let him lick her fingers. She even laughed a little. Comforted, Scraps eased himself back down, and soon enough felt the girl's hand stroking his head again. The warmth of the fire was nice. The blanket was soft and comfortable and smelled of girl. As Scraps blinked his heavy eyelids, the girl's hand went to the little medallion on his collar.

Scraps? she asked, and Scraps licked at her fingers again. The girl scratched his ears, which was lovely. She bent toward him, so close that Scraps could smell that she'd recently eaten some chops. He closed his eyes. With every breath he whined without meaning to. His ribs hurt more than his feet did now. The girl said something else. Dimly, Scraps thought he understood the word "home," but he was much too exhausted to do anything about it. He breathed as carefully as he could, letting the girl pet his ears.

Suddenly he jerked awake, disoriented. Scraps hadn't realized he'd fallen asleep. The quick movement pained him, and he growl-whined. What had disturbed him? Through his blurry vision he could just make out another human shape standing beside his basket. When it spoke he realized it was a woman with a deep voice. When she spoke to the girl she used a word that was similar to Victor, which Scraps found a bit strange. Then the girl spoke again, one soft hand on his mostly bald head. Most of it was just a murmur of human noise to Scraps, but he caught the girl using the word "mother." Then that Victor word again...Victoria? Was that it? And somewhere in there he heard "the Van Dort's dog."

Scraps tried to wag his tail, to say that yes, he was Victor Van Dort's dog and he wanted to go home, but it hurt too much. This other mother had come a bit closer and was looking at him with her lip curled. He knew that look. It was the look he got from Mother when he tried to sit on people furniture. Eventually Scraps had to put his head down again to rest. All he wanted was to see Victor one more time. As nice as this girl was, he wanted Victor to pet him.

He sighed and twitched and listened. More human murmuring. The girl's hand steady and gentle. The fire keeping him less warm than before. The room went dark until the sound of a door opening roused him. Scraps looked up, too weak now to wag his tail. He thought he'd caught a whiff of Mayhew, his other best friend. Someone coughed, and heavy footsteps approached his basket. Scraps couldn't quite muster the energy to look up.

Goodbye, Scraps, said the girl, petting his muzzle one more time. Then, both to Scraps' surprise and comfort, the girl pressed her forehead to his. Both the gesture and the tone she used made Scraps want to lick her face, but he was too weak. He settled for licking his own nose, hoping she'd understand. The girl stepped away. Strong arms lifted him up and he knew immediately he'd been right. Scraps quickly recognized Mayhew's smell, one of smoke and anchovies. Mayhew would take him to Victor. And everything would be all right.

Snuggled against Mayhew, Scraps closed his eyes and sighed a long, deep sigh. And then suddenly nothing hurt anymore.

0—0

Scraps sprang awake with more ease and energy than he had in a very long time. For the first time in what felt like ages he leapt to his feet with no pain at all. He turned a few circles in celebration, then sat and scratched himself under the chin with his hind foot. Panting happily (breathing was so easy now!), Scraps looked about to see where Mayhew had put him down. Hopefully he was somewhere close to Victor. Victor's room, perhaps? Or the little bed in the kitchen?

But no. Scraps stopped. He sat. And he thought. He was in the square again. Next to the statue. Now that he could see clearly, it was easy to recognize. Though it looked a bit different than usual. Was it even the same square? No longer very happy, Scraps reeled in his tongue and snuffled to himself, shifting on the cobblestones. Something was very wrong. Scraps heard a crunching noise behind him, and looked up to see a horse made of bones looking back at him. A deep something in his own bones was worrying him again, just as it had back in the kitchen when he knew he had to walk far away and hide. Scraps just didn't quite know what it was yet.

For a long time Scraps sat by the statue and watched the things go by. That was how Scraps was thinking of them. They looked like humans, but they had no smell. And they were mostly made of bones, like the horse. Some of them were all bones. This was confusing. He felt healthy and free, as if he could run all the way around the village a hundred times and never get tired. That was a good thing. And yet, something was wrong. There were no smells. Without his nose, Scraps didn't know what to do.

"Ooh, a puppy!"

Scraps turned in the direction of the voice to find two of the human-things beside him. They were little, like children but not. One wore a suit like the one Victor had worn once upon a time. The other had long hair and clutched a toy.

"Poor puppy, did you hit by a wagon?" asked the child-thing wearing the suit. Atop its head was the sort of little hat Victor used to have, before Scraps ate it.

"Or did you accidentally eat some poison?" asked the one with the long hair.

Scraps barked once, short and shrill. To show that he was just fine, and didn't know what they meant. The little skeletons looked at one another.

"Oh, you're not fine, though," said the long-haired one sadly. This was a girl, Scraps was rather sure. He nosed at her outstretched hand as she went on, "Poor dog. You're one of us now."

"I've always wanted a puppy!" said the skeleton in the outfit like Victor's. A boy, then? He sounded so happy that it made Scraps happy, too, and his tail began to wag. It seemed to Scraps they were humans, like Victor and Mother and the girl who had helped him and all of the people in the village. Yet there was still something off, something Scraps couldn't quite figure out. One of us, the girl had said...

Suddenly Scraps realized that he could understand this little girl. Not just the bits and pieces of familiar words, not merely tones. He really understood her, without her having barked or made any dog sounds at all. This was unsettling, nearly more unsettling than the lack of smell. Could they understand him, too?

As a test, Scraps barked and yipped a message: What do you mean, one of you? Why am I not fine? I feel good! The girl reached down and scratched behind his ears. To his dismay, Scraps realized he couldn't feel the scratching. Slowly his tail stopped wagging. The girl replied, "I'm sorry, doggy, but you're dead. You died, and now you're with us in the Land of the Dead. Don't be scared, though. It's actually not too bad, once you get used to it." And she scratched his ears again.

Dead? Scraps sat and let the girl continue to scratch his head. The boy, after saying he'd be right back, ran off to one of the doorways along the square. Scraps watched him and thumped his tail against the cobblestones. Dead. He didn't know what that meant. Whatever "dead" was, at least he wasn't ill and in such pain any longer. Heartened, Scraps beat his tail even harder. Victor must be about somewhere. This place looked so similar to home...

"Here, dog!" cried the boy, running back over. The boy was waving some kind of big bone over his head. It looked a bit like an arm. Scraps leapt to his feet, nearly knocking over the girl. He gave her a swift lick of the face by way of apology before turning back to the boy. A bone! Scraps kept his eyes trained on it.

"Look, doggy! Fetch!" the boy said, and threw the bone. Scraps yipped, overjoyed. He loved this game! And he'd not played in so long. Before the bone had even landed he was off like a shot after it. It came to rest on the other side of the square, near the door of a shop. Scraps was on it the second it hit the ground. With eager jaws he snapped it up, enjoying the fact that the bone looked like it was moving. Quickly as he could he dragged it back to the skeleton children and dropped it at their feet. Scraps barked, letting them know it was time to throw again.

"Good boy!" the little skeletons said in unison. Before they could pick up the bone and throw it, though, a new voice broke in.

"Hey, now, what are you two doing with that?" asked an angry man's voice. Scraps and the children turned to see a bigger skeleton coming at them. The bone started pulling itself along the ground as the skeleton neared. They watched as the skeleton picked up the bone and waved it about. "I'm selling these, you know! Some folks need them. Aw, now look, it has all teeth marks on..."

"Sorry," said the girl.

"We just wanted to play fetch with the dog," added the boy. Scraps yipped and then sat like a good boy, watching the bone all the while. The skeleton man seemed to take in Scraps for the first time.

"A dog!" exclaimed the skeleton, all trace of anger gone. Immediately he dropped to his knee-bones and held out a skeletal hand to rub Scraps' head. "I haven't seen a dog in...a dog's age! Who's a good boy? Are you a good boy?" And he handed the bone back to Scraps, who barked his thanks and gave it a little chew.

Word of a dog in the square spread quickly. Two ladies in dresses and big hats stopped to coo over him. Scraps accepted their petting happily, and agreed that yes, he was indeed a nice little dog and a sweet little dog. An older-looking gentleman with a pipe and mustache said what a fine pup Scraps was. -A large woman all in white with a big hat fussed over the sorry state of his fur, gave him a hearty pat, and then offered him a grey-green shapeless treat. Scraps ate it without tasting. Then came a tall skinny man who looked a bit like Victor. This man carried a tray with another man's head upon it.

"Ooh la la, such an adorable chien!" said the head when the skinny man held the tray down to Scraps' level. Scraps gave the head a lick on the nose, which made the head laugh so hard it nearly tipped over.

More people gathered, seeming to come from everywhere at once. Some were skeletons, some looked like the people back home, if a little sunken and strange. Most important to Scraps was that everyone seemed to love him. Everyone wanted to pet him. Everybody here, it seemed, loved him just as much as Victor had.

Victor. Scraps stopped in mid-trick, much to the groaning disappointment of the crowd. He whined, Victor's face in his mind.

"His master must still be alive," someone in the crowd said. This time, the general noise was one of sympathy. Bit by bit the people dispersed again, most of them offering Scraps one last gentle pet or two and a few kind words. Even the little skeletons eventually went on their way.

Scraps was all by himself again, sitting by the statue. He was an orphaned dog. Victor was still alive. Whatever that meant. At any rate, it was clear Victor wasn't here with him right now. Waiting for him seemed like the best idea. Surely Victor would be along. He always had been before. He'd never left Scraps alone, not once, not if he could help it. Scraps turned around three times, then curled himself on the ground, head on his paws.

"Are you waiting for someone, little dog?" asked a woman's voice. Scraps thumped his tail and lifted his head.

"I could tell by the way you look," she said, by way of explanation. "I know a little bit about waiting," she added as she sat down beside him. "Anyway, I heard there was a dog, and here you are! It's been so long since I've seen a dog, you can't imagine. Aren't you a cutie!"

Scraps liked this woman immediately. She was partly bones, but she looked like a whole person, more or less. He edged himself a little closer so that she could run her hand down his back.

"My name is Emily," she told him. Scraps tossed his head so that his collar would bounce and catch her attention. Sure enough, Emily reached and turned the medallion in her hand. She giggled and stroked his ears. "Nice to meet you, Scraps."

Scraps barked, hoping his meaning was clear: Likewise. Emily laughed again. Scraps let his tongue loll out of his mouth in his best imitation of a smile. Scraps wasn't used to hearing people laugh. He liked the sound. Carefully, hoping he wouldn't be scolded for ruining her dress, Scraps climbed onto Emily's lap and yipped.

"I bet you weren't allowed to do this at home!" she said, ruffling what fur was left on his muzzle. No, Scraps agreed. It was nice to do it now. He needed a little comfort from a nice person, as his favorite person wasn't available. Scraps curled up on Emily's lap. She seemed to sense the change in his attitude.

"Poor little thing," she soothed, petting him gently. "You must miss your owner. Would you like to tell me about him?" Scraps looked up at her and whined a little, unsure. She just gave him an encouraging smile. Overcome with a wonderful sort of feeling, Scraps stood on his hind legs and put his forepaws on Emily's shoulders. Just as he used to do with Victor when he had something very important to communicate.

In yips and in thoughts and in little barks and in tail wags, Scraps told Emily all about Victor Van Dort. How they'd been best friends for all of Scraps' life. How they'd gone for walks in the woods, how Victor had trained him with little fish, how Scraps always slept at the foot of Victor's bed. He explained how the square looked and where his favorite alleys were, and all the times he and Victor had played behind the cannery. He tried to paint the best picture he could of his kind master, the very best human he'd ever known. All the very best of his own life, and all the very best of Victor, and how wonderful the pair of them had been together.

"Oh, Scraps," said Emily when Scraps had finished and sat down again. "He sounds wonderful. What a lucky little dog you were. Victor, you said his name was?"

Scraps barked in assent, glad to know she agreed with him about Victor. Even gladder to have such a nice new friend. Emily stood, and Scraps followed, curious and eager to be up and about.

"Would you like to go for a walk?" she asked. "I'll show you my favorite places here. Perhaps we can even find you a bone or two. It will be fun!"

Fun sounded fun to Scraps. He yipped and turned about in a circle, and then he and Emily set off together across the square.


	13. Chapter 13

Grampa

Hiram Weary was worried about his grandson, Ogdred. The boy had developed an unhealthy fascination with death. An obsession, really. Death and dying was all the little lad seemed to want to talk about. When he spoke at all, of course. Ogdred had grown quiet and subdued.

Once upon a time, Ogred had been quite the chatterbox. He'd been full of questions. Why the sky was the color it was, what made the river run, why didn't worms have any feet. The usual interests of small boys. But now little Ogdred, barely five years old, wanted to know if it hurt to die. What, precisely, was meant by "forever." How quickly a person turned into a skeleton. If a person kept being himself after he died, or if there was only dark. If it was possible to come back again, if only for a little while.

Hiram didn't know what to say.

It had only been three months since Hiram's son and daughter-in-law had died. A freak carriage accident in the next town over. They'd been enjoying a day out together. Ogdred had stayed behind, kept to bed with a head cold. Secretly Hiram had never been so grateful for an illness to be visited on his grandson.

There was an emptiness in the house now. The days seemed slower. Hiram tried to keep to household routines, for his own comfort as much as the boy's. So tonight, as always after supper was over, Hiram and Ogdred sat in the small front room of the Weary house. The house was a narrow terraced affair right in the center of town, with a stone facade. It had been built by Hiram's own grandfather, back when the village was new. Since about that same time, the Wearys had been the village's odd-job men. Moving things about, pushing wheelbarrows, shoeing horses, putting new handles on the town crier's bell, all of that and more. Next door lived Hiram's daughter, who was so far happily unmarried and looked to remain so. The three of them were all that was left of the clan now.

Hiram, square-jawed and dark-haired and tall, never without his favorite top hat, sat in his comfortable chair before the fire, whittling away at a new piece. He wasn't quite sure what it was going to be yet. A bird, perhaps. Hiram paused to cough the wet cough that had been niggling him for a month. Ogdred was playing on the floor with the set of wooden soldiers Hiram had whittled for him for Christmas last year. It was a mostly silent game, whatever it was. Every now and again Ogdred would mumble something to himself that Hiram couldn't quite catch. Eventually, perhaps inevitably, he caught a whispered, "That's it. That's it for all of them."

Putting his knife aside, Hiram looked at Odgred there on the rug near the fireplace. Ogdred took after his mother, small and fair-haired, with a very serious narrow little face. The nipper was a pip. Or, at least, would someday be so again, once he got over this fascination with mortality. Hiram watched as, with care, Ogdred laid each soldier down on its back, until they were all in a neat row on the rug.

"Duuuun-dun-dun," intoned Ogdred, as he pulled one of Hiram's old handkerchiefs over the row of toys. "Duuuuun-dun-dun. Dun-dun-dun, dun-dun-dun, dun-dun-dun..."

Taps, Hiram recognized, and frowned deeply. Once the figures were completely covered in their new handkerchief shroud, Odgred sat back and hugged his knees to his chest. Every game the boy played lately had to do with death. "Funeral" was a favorite. The boy had buried everything from dead spiders to dead leaves in little holes in the garden. Some game.

Suddenly the air in the room became oppressive. Too close. Too sad.

"Come on," said Hiram suddenly, making up his mind as he spoke. He stood, cleared his throat. Ogdred looked up from the dead soldiers, wide-eyed. "Get on your coat, my boy, we're going for a walk."

"It's nighttime, Grampa."

"Doesn't matter. On with your coat!"

It didn't matter that it was past dark. Anything to get the lad out of here, away from this morbid game. Some fresh air would do them both good. Once they were hatted and coated, Hiram turned down the lamps, locked the door, and the two of them set out, hand in hand.

Hiram coughed wetly. He turned to spit what came up as discreetly as he could. The old lungs weren't what they used to be. Chill air made it worse. But still they soldiered on around the edge of the square. The town crier was on his evening break. At eleven on the nose he'd wake the entire village with an update. Hiram really did need to speak with the other village elders about that crier and his infernal bell. Damned nuisance. What sort of news happened at eleven at night?

Past the Van Dort mansion, dark tonight. Past the shuttered shops. When they reached the Everglot mansion on the far side of the square, they found it more lively than Hiram had ever seen it in all of his eighty-odd years.

"It's all lit up," said Ogdred, staring up at the grand house. Then, "Wouldn't it be awful if one of those big candles fell over? It would start a fire, and everyone would die."

"Ogdred," Hiram said wearily, "that's enough. Put that sort of thing out of your mind. Just enjoy how nice it looks, eh?"

There were a few handsome carriages out front. Hiram recognized a couple, including William Van Dort's and Sir Robert Glottberg's. The Van Dorts' driver, Mayhew, was lingering by the carriage, puffing at his pipe. He gave Hiram a little wave when he caught his eye, which Hiram returned.

"I do wonder what all the fuss is," Hiram said, lowering his arm and looking back up at the house.

"A party?" suggested Ogdred. He pointed to one of the big front windows, where several shadows passed back and forth. Hiram looked again at the line of carriages.

It looked like a party. But the Everglots never threw parties. Everyone knew that, apart from not being the types to enjoy fun, the Everglots were completely broke. What sort of party could they throw? All of their guests would probably have to share one bottle of table wine and half an old teacake. And Lady Everglot couldn't abide music. Trust the Everglots to throw party with no actual festivity whatever. Sad as it was, it would certainly suit the overall mood of the village, and of its reigning family.

"A quiet party," added Ogdred, as if reading Hiram's thoughts.

"Hello, Mr. Weary. Hello, Ogdred," said a voice from the shadows near the front stairs. Hiram and Ogdred both gasped, startled. The gasp set Hiram off on a coughing fit bad enough that he doubled at the waist. He had to struggle to get his breath back.

"Are you all right, Grampa?" asked Ogdred in his tiny voice. "Please don't choke!" Hiram just set a hand on the boy's shoulder in a reassuring way. He was still coughing too hard to say anything.

"I'm sorry!" cried the same voice. "Sorry, sorry! So sorry to startle you."

A figure stepped out of the shadows by the stairs. It was Victor Van Dort, the fish merchant's son. Dressed to the nines and looking supremely uncomfortable with it. The young man's hair was even pomaded.

"Evening, Master Van Dort," Hiram said as he straightened up. He wheezed uncomfortably.

"Are you all right, sir?" asked Victor, looking worried. He was twisting at his elaborately knotted ascot.

"Grampa?" asked Ogdred, who was a shade paler than milk. Hiram looked into his grandson's face and what he saw there made his heart fall. Someone so tiny shouldn't have such dark circles under their eyes. Or that look of profound fear and worry. Hiram carefully cleared his throat. The danger appeared to have passed. So he smiled, bent, and swooped Ogdred into a hug.

"Right as rain, lad," he said, hoping the boy didn't hear how guttural his voice sounded. He set a relieved Ogdred back on the ground.

"Oh, good news," said Victor. He had a wistful kind of smile on his face as he looked back and forth between Hiram and Ogdred.

"Why were you hiding in the dark?" Ogdred asked Victor, curious but polite. Immediately Victor looked embarrassed, and twisted at his ascot again.

"I..er, wasn't hiding," he explained. "I...well, you see..."

Just then the door of the Van Dort carriage flew open, startling Mayhew so that his lit pipe nearly tumbled from his mouth. Nell Van Dort, bedecked in very tight evening finery and a truly impressive hat, squeezed herself from the carriage with such force that it rocked on its wheels once she'd alighted.

"Victor, what have you been doing? Where have you been?" demanded Mrs. Van Dort as she barreled toward her now cringing son. She straightened the boy's ascot and smoothed his hair back. The pomade was no match for Victor's hairline, it seemed. "You were supposed to be charming an invitation out of them!"

"I'm sorry, Mother, it didn't work," Victor told her. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sheaf of paper money, which he held out to his mother. "The butler wouldn't take the bribe, either."

Mrs. Van Dort snatched the bills and stuffed them into her drawstring handbag. She was muttering to herself. From what Hiram could catch, mostly about how her family was the wealthiest in town, her son was eligible, and so forth. Victor just stood there awkwardly beside her, his posture hunched and his expression both tired and embarrassed.

"Of all the insulting, ridiculous-" Mrs. Van Dort broke off her muttering when she finally noticed Hiram. He nodded to her. He wasn't surprised when she didn't nod back. She'd not openly acknowledged him or the rest of his family for at least a decade now. Very eager to forget her humble beginnings as well as her old neighborhood, was Nell Van Dort.

"How do you do?" she sniffed to Hiram, tossing her head and putting a hand on her hip. Without waiting for a reply, she made for the carriage again, where Mayhew stood holding the door open. To Victor, she said, "Never mind! Just forget all about it, Victor. I'll tell you what, we'll have Mayhew take us out to the depot town, I hear some mill owner's daughter is coming out tonight, too. They'll let us in, I'm certain of it!"

Mrs. Van Dort kept talking, but was by now inside the carriage. Hiram caught Victor's eye just as he stepped in behind his mother. The lad's eyes had a hunted look in them.

As the carriage rolled away out toward the gates, Hiram couldn't help smiling to himself. So that would be the cause of the relative hullabaloo. Springtime was debutante time. Miss Victoria Everglot was in society now. The village hadn't had a proper debut since...must have been Lady Everglot, when she was just a young lady herself. Of course this was all hearsay from his daughter and the crier's endless intrusive society news. Men like Hiram, village fixtures or not, didn't much get invited to balls.

"My," said Ogdred, slipping his little hand back into Hiram's. That seemed to be all there was to say. So they started walking again, nearly finished with their lap around the square. Hiram set a leisurely pace. He attempted to keep his breathing shallow. Every time he breathed too deep he felt the warning tickle of another wet coughing fit deep in his lungs. He'd be happy to be home in front of the warm fire again. Dearly he hoped it hadn't burned down too low. He couldn't remember if he'd thought to bank it before they'd left.

"Ooh, look," whispered Ogdred suddenly, stopping in his tracks. "It's a ghost."

Hiram looked where the boy was pointing. There was indeed a figure off in the shadows to the side of the mansion. But it wasn't a ghost.

It was Miss Everglot, standing against one of the columns of the portico as if embracing it for support. Or like a shipwreck survivor desperately clinging to a bit of wreckage. Once Hiram got a closer look at her gown, he saw it was no wonder that Ogdred had mistaken her for a ghost. Miss Everglot's elaborate dress was the whitest white he'd ever seen, with a train at least ten feet long. It was cut low, too, and only had the merest little gauzy sleeves over her shoulders. Otherwise her arms were bare. What little light came through the French doors, combined with the moonlight, seemed to make her glow. She drew herself up a little as Hiram and Ogdred approached, and nodded to them.

"Good evening," she said, her voice so quiet as to nearly be a whisper. "Mr...Weary, isn't it?"

"Good evening, Miss Everglot," he replied, flattered that she knew his name. Usually the baron's family never bothered learning the names of the more humble villagers. Emboldened by the personal greeting he tipped his hat and then gestured at the house. "You seem to be missing your own party."

Miss Victoria leaned against the column again, her cheek nearly touching it. "I simply needed some air," she said. She sounded a bit sad. Odd. Didn't girls live for this sort of thing? Parties, dresses, dancing. Unable to think of anything to say, Hiram simply nodded.

"Oh!" Miss Victoria said, straightening up. "Forgive me, I didn't see you there. How do you do?" She was looking at Ogdred. A small smile finally lit up her face. She was much prettier when she smiled. Hiram grinned, something he normally wouldn't do in the presence of a young lady. Big horsey teeth and all that. He was a touch self-conscious about them. But now, in the half-light and with the baron's daughter so sweetly speaking to his grandson, Hiram let himself grin as big as he was able.

Gently Hiram nudged Ogdred, who was shyly tracing shapes on the cobbles with the toe of his shoe. "H'lo," said Ogdred in the tiniest of tiny voices. Miss Victoria took a few steps closer, holding her skirt out of her way with one hand.

Before Hiram had to worry about coming up with more to say to a baron's daughter, the portico doors swung open. Out strode Sir Robert Glottberg, the mill owner. Hiram hauled away woodchips and other debris from the mill and work-sites from time to time. Sir Robert only had eyes for Miss Victoria, however.

"Taking a bit of air, eh?" he asked her. "Lady Everglot is wondering where you've gone. Shall we?" He offered his arm and she reluctantly took it. When she looked back at him and met his eye, Hiram thought he saw the same sort of hunted expression in her eyes as he'd seen in Victor Van Dort's moments before.

"She looked sad," Ogdred observed. Frowning, he slipped his hand into Hiram's.

As they walked away, Hiram couldn't help thinking it was too bad Master Van Dort hadn't been let in. Miss Everglot most likely could have used some quiet company of her own age. Perhaps she wouldn't have been so sad, then.

By the time they reached the front door, Hiram was having more trouble than usual getting his breath. Hacking and wheezing and trying not to alarm Ogdred, he collapsed into his armchair before the dead fire. In a blink Ogdred was beside him, eyes wide and scared. Hiram tried to get a breath to reassure him, but the breath wouldn't go all the way into his lungs.

"Grampa?" asked Ogdred, close to tears. Hiram could just barely summon the strength to put a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Go fetch your auntie," Hiram managed, feeling his throat close, drowning from the inside.

0—0

No time seemed to pass at all before Hiram opened his eyes again. When he did he found himself sitting in an armchair by a fireplace. A pewter mug filled with a fizzing purple liquid had been shoved into his hand. He wasn't home, that he knew immediately. There wasn't a dart board by the fireplace at home. Or a billiard table in the corner. The colors weren't so bright. It wasn't so loud.

Long-dead neighbors didn't walk around at home. Hiram stared, too frozen and confused to return the nods of those who offered them as they walked by or noticed him from the bar. There went Van Dort's old delivery boy. Captain Alfred Wadleigh, mustache intact but fleshless, smoking with a remarkably well-preserved William Van Dort Senior. Bernie Gwynn there at the bar, fellow odd-job man and gardener, a vine growing out of his eye socket.

Hiram looked down at himself to see he was wearing his good suit. A touch confirmed he was wearing his top hat, too. Most alarming was his skin. He looked like a piece of Bristol glassware. So strange to panic and not feel one's heart race. The panic was just an idea. So not entirely worth it, he decided.

And on the floor before the hearth two children played. Hiram took a closer look. They were little skeletons. Their faces were fleshless and without features, but he recognized their clothes, and the pretty yellow plaits on the girl. Underneath all the evidence of his senses was a deep certainty. The certainty that came with his current state of affairs.

"Adam and Evelyn?" Hiram asked, though it wasn't really a question. The last time he'd seen them had been nearly twenty years ago, when he'd found their lifeless little bodies in the river while out hauling stones one day. Both of them had been caught on a half-submerged branch by the bank. Hiram hadn't thought about that day in years. Especially not since Ogdred had been born.

The children, hearing him, looked up from their game. Between them on the floor lay a few piles of bones. Hiram looked away when he noticed a little skull which still had some fur attached.

"Hello, Mr. Weary," said Evelyn, echoed by her younger brother. "Welcome to being dead!"

Evelyn said it so cheerily. As if she was welcoming him into her mother's house for tea. Adam chimed in, "We can get you another drink if you want. We didn't know what you'd like so we asked Miss Plum to pick. Down here you don't have to wait to finish your first one if you don't want to."

Hiram looked at the mug, then at the children, then back and forth again a few more times. He let himself think the full phrase: I am dead. Why didn't he feel dead? Though, he reasoned, who knew what death was supposed to feel like, anyway? He didn't even feel sad. He felt comfortable. He could breathe easier. He felt a distinct lack of worry.

If this was being dead, it wasn't half-bad.

"What are you two up to?" asked Hiram, settling back with his drink. Even without the ability to taste, drinking was enjoyable. He could count on one hand the times in life he'd been properly able to sit with a pint.

"We're working a puzzle!" said Adam happily. Hiram watched the children has they fitted together the pile of bones, saving the head for last. It was impossible to know precisely what was holding the bones together. Hiram decided not to think about it too much. The children sat back as their creation leapt to its feet.

"Mew," said the tiny skeleton. Evelyn cooed at it and petted its rotting head.

"I think her legs are mixed up," she remarked, watching as the little skeleton cat walked in an awkward circle. The kitten didn't seem bothered. The fuzzy ear it had left twitched, and its little green eyeballs looked curiously about the room. Adam picked the cat up, hugged it, and then plopped it into Hiram's lap. Giggling, the pair of them scampered off, as children did. Even dead ones.

Ogdred, Hiram thought, seeing his grandson's face clearly in his mind. For the first time he felt uneasy, empty, worried. What would happen to the little nipper now? Everyone was dying on the boy. Hiram remembered all the times he'd promised his grandson that he wasn't going anywhere. That he'd be around for a good long time.

"I'm a liar," he told the purring dead kitten, who had curled up into an awkward skeletal ball.

At least now Hiram knew the answers to all of Ogdred's questions. It doesn't hurt to die. Yes, you're still yourself. There's food and drink, if you want it. Friends. Pets. Games to play. Nothing hurts. Everything feels right. There's nothing scary about it.

Do you get to come back again? Even for a little while?

Hiram slowly lowered his mug from his lips. He didn't know how it worked. Hiram still didn't know the answer to that one, the most important question of all. In life he never would have thought so. But now, sitting before a fire with children at his feet, a cat in his lap, and a drink in his hand, Hiram wasn't so sure. Nothing much seemed unlikely or impossible.

What he wouldn't give to see little Ogdred again. Even for just one more hug. And to tell him all the answers he'd learned. To tell him you still love people, even when you're dead. Death doesn't change love.

At that thought, Hiram just sat and stared into his nearly-empty mug for a very, very long time.


	14. Chapter 14

The Drunk Skeleton

Harold Koronsky sat in his little rented room above the haberdasher's, staring out at the square. Sheet music covered the small table, the footstool, and most of the floor. The air was close and reeked of pipe smoke and cheap liquor.

He hadn't seen her in six weeks. Missed piano lessons marked the days for him. They had missed six. No note, no message, no answer at the door aside from a brusque one delivered by her aunt. That had been two weeks ago. He'd given up knocking at the door after that. Shortly thereafter he'd retired to his room, unsure of what to do next.

Most of this music was for her. Harold looked at it all, scattered about the dingy space. All of this he'd collected since his first year of music teaching. He'd put such effort into finding the very loveliest duets he could. Nearly ever since they'd met he'd laid them before her as if they were flowers.

Six weeks. Harold slumped even further down in his chair. Had her aunt and uncle found out? Were they keeping her close to home? Under house arrest? Worse? From what he'd heard and seen of them, that didn't seem like the sort of action her family would take. Then again, they were genteel. Those people played by different rules. But for Maudeline to go six weeks, without any sort of contact...There wasn't any other explanation. There couldn't be.

Harold's stomach twisted, his face crumpled. He rubbed hard at his cheeks, breathed out noisily. It took a lot of effort not to throw something.

He missed her. He'd grown fonder of her than he had thought possible. When they'd first met, he'd been struck first by her manner and her bearing. And then by her breathtaking talent for the piano. Maudeline had a gift. The sort of pupil one met perhaps once or twice in a life's career. Every week he looked forward to her private lesson and the complicated and passionate duets they would play together. There was a mere five years of difference to their ages, nothing at all.

Harold thought of her often after her schooling was finished, always with fondness. And then, as fate would have it, the pair of them just happened to be at the same country house gathering last spring. As far as Harold was concerned, destiny called during the very first duet they played. They'd settled back in so easily. Maudeline hadn't changed a bit, except to become more elegant. He'd dared to kiss her after that first duet of the weekend. The charge between them had been like lightning. That same charge as years before, the charge he'd never dared act upon. The rest of the weekend followed in public concerts and private interludes, a swirl of music and ardor. Insane and improper and somehow inevitable.

Maudeline never once complained, never once expressed doubt, never once said no. Quite the opposite.

When the weekend was over and Maudeline headed back to her home village at last, Harold followed. He rented his rooms, lived off his savings, tried to decide what he would do when the new term began. Most important, the piano lessons continued. So did the intrigue. He'd not planned it that way, but he wasn't sorry. The threat of discovery and the scandal it would cause did not deter them—rather, it added excitement. At least Harold was excited by it. Maudeline certainly seemed to be. Oh, how much she seemed to be.

Finally, six weeks ago, the last time he'd seen her, they'd forgotten themselves completely. Right there on the stairs, where anyone could walk in the front door and discover them. They were too swept up by passion to care. Even now the memory was attractive. Afterward they hadn't said anything to each other. Apart from "goodbye," that was. Maudeline didn't like to talk, not about these matters. Harold had tried and she'd closed off immediately. So eventually he didn't try any longer.

But now he wanted to try again. Harold didn't want that to be the last word spoken between them.

From outside in the square came the clanging of a handbell. It was only two in the afternoon. The town crier must have a "special report." What a curiosity that fellow was. No other town he'd ever heard of anywhere still had a crier. Now, Harold barely bothered to listen. What did he care about this village's news?

Until, through the clanging, he thought he heard Maudeline's name. He crossed to the window and pushed it open, and the clanging was loud enough that the crier seemed to be in the room with him.

"Engagement official!" the crier called. "Lord Everglot to wed! Special report! Lord Everglot engaged to marry The Honorable Miss Maudeline Elvstead!"

Slowly, cold and numb, Harold sat down on his narrow bed. He rubbed at the few days' stubble on his face and let the words sink in. Maudeline was engaged to be married. To Finis Everglot.

"How could she?" he wondered aloud to his empty room. After all that had passed between them, she was marrying someone else? Without even a word? After all that had passed between them. After what they'd done. Had it meant nothing at all to her? Or, perhaps, had it meant too much?

All he was certain of was that he needed to see her. He threw on a clean collar and found his hat, straightened his tie. No time to shave.

Before he left his room he took a quick belt of liquid courage from the flask he kept in his bureau. A bad habit he'd fallen into since coming to this village. It had grown worse over the past six weeks. He'd had a tipple or two after lunch that day as well. The world was a little fuzzy around the edges as he stepped into the town square and began to make his way to Maudeline's house.

As he walked he thought about her. Tall and intelligent and charming when she cared to be. Such a lovely low voice, so very well-bred. That she'd touch inelegant, reedy him with even a ten-foot-pole...it was astounding. He couldn't believe he'd gone this long without seeing her. It was like missing a limb, a vital organ. He wished he'd brought his flask along.

Today Harold decided to bypass the front door. He was in luck. Maudeline was there, in her aunt and uncle's tiny courtyard around the back of the house. Shawled but hatless she stood before the little horse stall beside the carriage house. Her back was to him, her attention focused on her horse. She did cut a fine figure on a horse. Harold hadn't seen her riding for ages. The low gate was unlocked, so he pushed it open and headed into the courtyard.

Hearing him, she turned. When she saw who it was her face turned to stone. Her gloved hand dropped from the horse's mane, and, without a single word, she marched with her head held high toward the back door.

Harold loped after her. "Wait!" he cried. To his surprise, she did. Slowly she turned around.

"Yes?" Maudeline asked, as if he was a stranger. No. Not as if he was a stranger. As if he was someone who knew her far too well and she wished he didn't. Harold didn't know which was worse.

He stood before her, taking her in. Her impossibly long dark hair was down, loosely gathered and slung over one shoulder. Harold's hands itched to touch it. She was wearing the same gray house dress she'd been wearing at their last lesson. Something she'd most likely not wear to receive a visitor other than him. On their afternoons she wore accessible clothes. Harold realized too late that he was staring quite openly at her belt, her buttons. He could feel them giving way under his fingers again.

"Yes?" Maudeline said a second time, not so much a question now. She crossed her arms protectively over her front. Harold looked into her face.

"That's all?" he asked, trying desperately to keep the unmanly break from his voice. "That's all you have to say?"

Overcome with her presence and his memories and the whiskey he'd consumed, Harold dispensed with pleasantries and propriety. The two of them were well beyond it. So he spoke the words which had been whirling about his brain for a month.

"You never wrote," he said. Maudeline just regarded him, stony-faced. She wasn't very pretty when she frowned so deeply like that, he noticed. "All this time. Weeks. Not a word. I sent you a note. I tried to visit. It's not as though I left you after. What...what happened?"

There was the slightest flicker across her face, so brief he might have imagined it. Maudeline twisted her mouth but did not speak. Nor did she move to leave, which Harold found encouraging.

"You're marrying Lord Everglot?" he asked. He wanted to hear it from her lips.

"Yes," Maudeline replied shortly. She gave a cry of outraged surprise when he lurched forward and grabbed hold of her arm. Not hard. Just to make it known that he was serious. He'd never hurt her. He just wanted to touch her.

"Have you spoken to him? Do you like him? Do you even know him?" Harold asked, not bothering to give her time to respond. At last, he eased his grip and his voice, and tried to catch her eye. "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you at least tell me that much?"

Maudeline drew herself up and wrenched her arm out of his grip. Harold backed off a step. "Stop this at once," she ordered. But there was just the slightest hint of a waver at the edges of her voice. "How dare you speak to me that way. It is no business of yours what I do. Nor whom I marry."

"No business of mine?" he repeated. Shock and hurt flooded him. "Maudeline-"

"Miss Elvstead."

"Maudeline," Harold insisted. One of his hands curled into a frustrated fist. How he wished he had his flask. "I think, after what happened, I may call you Maudeline."

A heavy silence settled. Harold felt his heart begin to pound, echoing in his ears. Maudeline looked as though she was going to be sick.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Maudeline finally said, the waver clearer now. "Leave immediately or I shall call for the constable."

He was brought up short. "I beg your pardon?" he asked in a low, slow voice. He looked at her face, going over every detail. Desperation in her eyes. The grim set of her mouth. How pale and drawn she looked. Oh, she knew what he was talking about. She knew very well. Acid was starting to crawl up Harold's throat.

"But a marriage, so quickly," he ventured. He removed his hat to run a hand across his head, through his greasy hair. "You never said you were engaged. Quite the opposite-"

"I think you'll find I must," she said abruptly. "As soon as possible."

Understanding dawned slowly through the fog in his head and heart. Could she possibly mean what he thought she meant? Was it possible? Harold flicked his eyes over her, attempting to decide, trying and failing to meet her gaze. Maudeline was keeping her eyes resolutely on his shoes. She was not one for blushing or dramatics, but the tightness of her face gave away her force of feeling. Oh, if anyone knew the depths Maudeline was capable of, Harold fancied that he himself did. He softened, looking at her clutching her shawl more closely about herself.

"Marry me," Harold said, not aware he was going to speak until the words were out of his mouth. As he spoke he felt the rightness of them. "If you...must...then it should be me. It's only right. Marry me."

Maudeline stared at him. Her mouth made a perfect "O" of shock. The silence that greeted his words swiftly became oppressive. Belatedly he removed his hat in a gesture of respect.

"Marry you?" Maudeline asked, aghast. She had to reach out to catch at the doorknob for support. "You? A teacher? I am the daughter of a decorated general, engaged to marry a baron, and you ask me to marry you."

"Status, now?" he asked her, twisting and crushing his hat. Sensual memories he couldn't stop flashed through his mind, his flesh. His voice rose as he continued, "You never minded that before. You didn't seem to mind when we were playing together. You didn't mind when you let me-"

"Stop!" Maudeline cried, in a deep and forceful tone. And Harold did.

"I love you," Harold blurted out. He hadn't known it was true until he spoke the words. Not just because of their intimacy on the staircase. He'd love her just the same even without that. For whatever strange, impossible reasons, he was in love with her.

Again, Maudeline was silent and gaping, her face a comical representation of utter surprise. She was speechless. Her jaw worked uselessly for a few moments. Never once in the years he'd known her had she ever been without a word to say.

"As...as if that has anything to do with being married," she finally sputtered. Then she recovered a little, enough to look him in the eye and add, "I am going to be Lady Everglot. In a few weeks' time Maudeline Elvstead will no longer exist. I shall be happy to see her go." She turned her back on him at last and turned the doorknob.

"You'd best hope arithmetic isn't Lord Everglot's strong suit," Harold spat, a wave of nastiness coming over him. He saw Maudeline's shoulders jump a little.

"Do not bother me again," Maudeline said, not bothering to turn around. She strode into the house and slammed the door behind her. Harold heard the lock catch. For a long moment he stood in the courtyard listening to the horse nicker to itself. Harold had an icy hole where his heart used to be.

When Harold got back to his room he emptied his flask in two gulps. From beneath his bed he retrieved his reserve bottle, scattering sheet music and dust. He didn't bother with the flask this time, but instead took a huge pull directly from the neck of the bottle.

Gasping and wiping at the corners of his mouth, Harold took stock. A dingy lonely room far away from anywhere else he'd known. A village where he didn't really know anyone, was still an outsider. He'd been reckless and stupid and had got the girl he loved in trouble. Now she was marrying someone else. It was like something out of an opera.

Harold recalled her face, her voice, nothing tender anywhere for him. No feeling at all. It all meant nothing. Too many thoughts and images crowded in at once, a din inside his mind. Two more slugs from the bottle quieted them a little.

It stank in here. He needed some air. Clutching his bottle he turned and weaved his way back downstairs and into the street. Then he began to walk. He was floating, there was cheesecloth over his brain, there was pure acid in his stomach. Mercifully his mind shut off for a little while, and he wasn't aware of much.

When he came to himself again it was dark and cold. The bottle was nearly empty. Harold could see his breath. With difficulty he focused his eyes. He was in front of the Everglot mansion, right at the front steps, no idea how he got there. He breathed deep of the cold night air. It wasn't refreshing. Slowly bits and pieces came back. He'd spent some time at the Tavern, until Paul had kicked him out. Had he sat by the statue and cried at one point?

Footsteps came from the square behind him, and he turned to look. A pair out walking. A courting pair. Harold finished the bottle as they approached. They'll see, he thought, unsure of where it came from. They'll be ruined, too. Awful, this romance business...

"Everything all right?" asked the man when they were close. Harold squinted. It was the chap from the fish stall. William Van Dort. With a very young and very plump lady on his arm. His focus went in and out as he tried to get a better look at her. Harold weaved where he stood. A rank smell drifted up, making him dimly aware that at some point he must have been sick all over himself.

"Just looking at where my son's going to grow up," Harold explained, trying not to slur too much. Clumsily he tipped his hat to the woman, who pulled a face and leaned away from him. "My son will be an Everglot, you know. I guess I don't mind." That was a lie. But he didn't want to look crazy. William and his lady friend glanced at each other.

"Right," replied William slowly. To the girl he said, "Nell, dear, do me a favor and walk on my other side, eh?"

"Gladly," said Nell, putting quick distance between herself and Harold. She took William's other arm and added, "Public drinking. So common."

"Why don't you head on home, sir?" suggested William. Harold hiccuped, wiped at the corners of his mouth. "Get some sleep and maybe a wash, it'll be all right."

"No it won't!" called Harold after them as they walked away. He sat down heavily on the Everglots' front steps. "No it won't." There was a clink as the empty bottle dropped and rolled away. Let Maudeline clean it up when she was lady of the house...

Right. Now he remembered. Maudeline. Trouble. Broken heart. Harold was getting out of here. He heaved himself to his feet and, hardly able to see, staggered his way out the village gates. He only stopped long enough to be sick against the village wall. A wash. A wash sounded good. Capital.

The river was bound to be icy and clear. The water would help sober him up. For a long time he stood on the bridge, leaning over and bracing himself against the cool stone. Harold rested his cheek on it, enjoying the chill. He was sick one more time. What a mess. Fuzzily William's suggestion of a wash came back. It would feel so nice. He'd clean up, sober up, go home and sleep, and maybe be able to face Maudeline again.

Decided, he tipped himself over the side of the bridge into the swirling river below.

0-0

When Harold recovered from his latest lapse in memory, he still felt drunk. He'd gone numb. No more nausea, though. No more warmth. There was a clarity to his thinking that he didn't usually have while under the influence. Yet he still didn't feel quite normal.

He hadn't gone home. He had evidently headed to a tavern. It didn't look like Paul's place. The ceiling was low and the lights were strange, and there was a lot of noise. Someone was playing a fiddle. Harold had parked himself on a bar stool. There were three empty glasses before him. Experimentally he rapped his knuckles on the bar.

They'd gone purple. Suddenly he remembered his dunk in the river. He ran a hand over his still sopping head. His hat was gone. It was a shock he hadn't drowned, he'd been so-

Harold stopped. He looked around. The other patrons of this lively place were all dead. Rotting corpses dancing, drinking, talking up a storm. Just like in the land of the living, he didn't know a soul. So it wasn't too unfamiliar. And he didn't feel bad when no one greeted him beyond a half-hearted nod or tip of moldy hat. The barkeep, a jovial-looking corpse in tattered pinstripes, set a goblet of shimmering amber liquid before him.

"Damn it," Harold said, pounding the bar and making his drink bounce. "I didn't mean for this to happen!" And he hadn't. Down as he'd been, he hadn't intended to die.

"Few do, friend," said the barman wisely, heading down the line to deal with a couple of nattily dressed skeletons.

Harold, for lack of anything else to do, tasted his drink. Nothing. No taste at all. But still he was weaving in his seat, and still he was slurring. How odd. The dead could be drunk?

How wonderful, thought Harold. He didn't have to remember a thing if he didn't want to. He could keep on keeping on, and stay drunk for all eternity if he liked. He'd never have to see Maudeline again, think about her betrayal, or see her around town with the baby. He wouldn't have to live with it. He could be dead with it instead. That seemed a lot easier. Distance and all the benefits of constant drunkenness with none of the drawbacks. Yes.

As long as he could keep away bad memories, the afterlife would be fine. What else was there in life, anyway? He'd lost what good there was. That's where passion got him, where following his heart had led. So Harold drained his tasteless drink and enjoyed the immediate rush of giddiness it brought. Not long after came the happy fuzz, that welcome damper on feelings. He rapped his knuckles again and like magic the barman appeared with fresh goblet.

"Rough time, eh?" he asked, watching Harold down it in one. Harold chuckled mirthlessly.

"Women!" he announced, pounding the bar again. "Need I say more? Maybe I will later, if the drinks keep coming. But for now...women, right?"

"Sure," said the barman noncommittally. Before he turned to leave he left the bottle on the bar, shoving it toward Harold with a grin. "Enjoy yourself, friend."

And so Harold would, he decided. He'd park himself right here on this stool and this is where he'd stay until he turned to dust. And when Maudeline got down here he'd give her what-for, yes he would. He'd tell her that she was cold and cruel and had used him and was icy and wasn't that nice looking, anyway.

When the wave of nastiness passed, Harold poured himself another drink. Who was he kidding? He'd tell her what was true. He loved her. Even when he was bare bones, he knew, he'd love her. And he'd still be trying to drink the pain away.


	15. Chapter 15

Emily

One dark, foggy night in autumn, Emily Van Lynden was waiting. It was a quarter to three in the morning. She stood beneath the great, handsome oak tree beside the cemetery, just as they'd agreed. Wanting this to be special, she'd dressed herself as best she could. A crown of flowers was all that held her flowing hair, and in her hand she carried a bouquet, both made from flowers which had been meant to be that night's dinner table centerpiece. Roses and lilies and baby's breath. In her other hand she had a satchel filled with gold coins. The money they would need to start their new life.

Charlie was going to meet her here. Any minute now. They would make haste to the next nearest village, and find the pastor that Charlie said he knew there. They were going to be married. A pleasurable shiver went through her. All the times she'd dreamed of her true love, all the lonely hours she'd spent wondering if she would ever marry, in all that time she'd never imagined Charlie.

Always, when she'd pictured a wedding, Emily had imagined being given away. Running away to wed, as romantic as it was, still felt...wrong. Not wrong enough to change her mind, though. The gold she'd taken was her fair share. Her dowry, that was all. It wasn't stealing. Nor was her taking Mother's jewels. As she'd dressed herself by candlelight earlier in the night, Emily had shed a few tears over the fact that Mother wasn't here to see her. Mother's wedding gown, smelling of mothballs, fit her perfectly. She shed a few more over the fact that she wouldn't get the storybook wedding party she'd always dreamed of. At least Emily would have the storybook romance she'd always wanted. The storybook life. Those comforting thoughts, coupled with the memory of Charlie's touch, his kiss, helped dry her tears.

Emily had replayed the memory of their meeting dozens of times over the past two days. She never wanted to forget it, not as long as she lived, no matter how many happy years the two of them were together. As she waited there in the stillness and chill of the wee hours, Emily let the memory warm her again.

The day before yesterday had dawned chilly, and then had mellowed into a slightly warmer afternoon. After nearly a solid week the rain had finally stopped. All of the leaves had fallen from the trees without changing color. Emily had lived in this village for five years and still couldn't get used to that. Here, the leaves on the trees went brown and then fell off, almost overnight. Still, she loved a ramble, and so she'd set off on her customary path across the bridge and past the church, skirting the cemetery and following the river into the forest.

Emily was used to the forest being quite empty. Most every other villager kept inside the walls. If they had business elsewhere, they took the carriage road which went through the woods on the other side of the church. Shame, really. The forest was full of charming little clearings and glades. Even if they were always a little chilly and gray, they were beautiful in their way. And the perfect place to really be alone. Emily did not enjoy solitude. But she did enjoy feeling free. Somehow it seemed she could never quite achieve the latter without the former. In the clearings and on the path she could dance if she wanted, sing if she cared to, and nobody could tell her it was unbecoming or too much.

But that day there was someone behind her on the path. As soon as she heard the footsteps crunching on the recently fallen leaves, she turned. There was a good-looking young man who looked a few years older than her, perhaps in his twenties, on the path behind her. He stopped when she did, leaving a polite distance between them.

"Good day," he'd said, touching the brim of his top hat. Emily liked the smooth, deep, cultured nature of his voice immediately. She liked the rest of him, too. A very large, distinctive chin, and luscious hair worn long for a man. And those positively smoldering eyes. Emily thought he looked just like a Romantic poet.

"Hello. My name is Emily Van Lynden," she'd replied, trying to be friendly and cover the fact that she'd been staring. "My father and I live in the village."

For a moment the man gave her an appraising sort of look. As if he recognized her from somewhere. In thinking it over later, Emily realized it had to have been the recognition of a soul mate. Then, a slow smile the like of which Emily had never seen lit up his face. It was almost like a panther was smiling at her. Rather than being frightened, Emily was intrigued, and unsettled in the best, most exciting possible way.

"Charles Bunting," he said, bowing deeply. "So very pleased to make your acquaintance."

Gentlemanly and kind, Charlie had led her to his little encampment in a clearing on the far end of the cemetery. As soon as they began to converse, it was as if they had known each other for years. For always. What a pleasure it had been to talk to someone! For hours they sat on a fallen log at Charlie's little camp, and they talked. And talked. Emily revealed things about herself she never had to anyone else. The best part was that Charlie listened. Nobody ever had paid her that kind of intent attention, as if drinking in her every word and acting as though pleased to just be next to her. They had so very much in common, too. Charlie had no parents at all, and his family money was gone. He'd been doing the best he could for himself in the wake of tragedy. A few tears came to Emily's eyes as she listened.

And when Charles finally took her hand...oh, she had never felt that way before. In all her life she'd never actually had a man touch her. It was exciting. Now she knew what all the fuss was about.

Charles. He was the One. Every novel she'd ever read, every ballad she'd ever sung or played, had made it clear that when the One came along, you would just know. In the space of an afternoon, Emily just knew. Simple as that. She wanted to marry him. She could happily spend the rest of her life with this man. He was the one she'd been waiting for. She decided right then and there that the moment she got home, she would talk to her father. After that, she was certain, she could deal with the formality of a proposal.

When they'd parted that first day, Charles had taken her hand and kissed it. No one had ever kissed her hand before. To have a handsome man's lips anywhere on her was dizzyingly exciting. He must have noticed her about to swoon, for he smiled a knowing sort of smile and brought a hand to her face. A gentleman's hand, soft and smelling of rosewater.

Now I know why I was favored enough to avoid that dreadful train accident, he'd said, his dark eyes boring into hers in a knowing and somehow possessive way that flattered and entranced her. I was brought here to find you, Emily.

Emily hugged herself, remembering his voice when he'd said that. He was so...so...intense. And passionate. One could just tell that he was a man of moods, and the stories he'd told her of his life proved that he was a man of adventurous spirit. So unlike anyone she'd ever met here.

Charlie couldn't have come along at a better time. More proof, Emily thought, that they were meant for one another. The village, never bright and cheery to begin with, had become more dour with each passing year. Villagers seemed less inclined to return smiles. Emily had quarreled with her friend Nell, and they'd not made up before Nell had married and more or less disappeared. Father had fallen deeper into the bottle and sometimes didn't even appear at mealtimes. Even the sky, never bright here to begin with, seemed darker.

And the deaths. One couldn't forget those. Emily set down the satchel of gold and rubbed her tired arm, glancing around again for any sign of Charlie. Dear old Miss Plum from the Tavern had died. Everyone from the Tavern had died. The building was shuttered and silent and cold, nearly a monument itself. Then, most recently, the loss of those two dear little children. Emily's eyes welled up. Poor little Evelyn and Adam. Poor old Mr. Weary, who had found them.

Emily was ready to leave all of this behind. This gloom. The memories. Now she realized, a bit, what Father had felt after Mother died. Why he'd uprooted them so completely, and moved them to this village where they only had the remotest of ties. And while she understood, now, Emily also had a hard time forgiving Father. She'd hoped news of her engagement would make Father happy again, give him new hope. But no, it had not. It is not a daughter's place to choose a husband, Father had insisted, over Emily's protests. Particularly not some strange fellow you met in the woods. You know nothing about him!

Emily knew she loved him. That was enough for her. Though she knew it was wicked and disrespectful, Emily felt that her father had no right to object. After Mother had died, after they'd moved to this place, Father hardly said two words to her. All these years! Emily was the one who took care of the house. Emily was the one who corresponded with creditors when Father was locked in his study, the smell of brandy strong enough to almost waft under the door. Emily was the one who had been the public face of the family in this village. Emily was the one who paid calls to neighbors. Ran all the errands. Employed all of the temporary help. Kept what was left of their family from falling apart. Emily should be the one to decide on her marriage.

Her happy plans swiftly unraveling, Emily turned to the next person she could think of: Mrs. Wadleigh next door. Of course Mrs. Wadleigh would understand! Why, hadn't she gone through the very same thing? Granted, Emily only knew bits and pieces, but she what she'd picked up was enough for her to believe Mrs. Wadleigh might be sympathetic. Emily had run next door and luckily found her neighbor in. Breathlessly she'd explained and begged for help. Wasn't there anything the Wadleighs could do to make Father see reason?

"It was a bit different for us. Mr. Wadleigh and I grew up together, dear," Mrs. Wadleigh had said in a gentle kind of way. She'd reached and taken a gobsmacked and hurt Emily's hand, and added, "Why not bring this young man round for your father to meet? He might feel more inclined to say yes."

Emily had pulled her hand away. That hadn't been the answer she'd been hoping for. Didn't anyone understand? Charlie was only here temporarily, and Emily was determined to go with him when he left. More was said, but Emily couldn't remember it all. She was sure she'd thanked a troubled-looking Mrs. Wadleigh, and then went out the door.

After all the time she'd spent with them. After sweet old Captain Wadleigh had put her photograph in the newspaper for her eighteenth birthday. However, she didn't leave the Wadleighs entirely empty-handed. Emily left with an idea. She and Charlie could elope, just as the Wadleighs had done. Goodness, they could leave that very night! Why wait? She'd gone immediately to his little camp by the river to share her idea. Charlie's eyes had widened, then narrowed, then widened again as he began to smile. Then he'd taken her hands and swung her about in a circle, laughing from deep in his throat.

"Why are you laughing like that?" Emily asked, giggling herself. Charlie just pulled her close and spoke right into her ear. She barely heard his next whispered words, so close was she to swooning.

"I'm so pleased, my dear," he murmured. Emily felt as if she was beginning to glow. "I'm so pleased that this is all so easy."

"Love should be," she told him. Then, mustering her courage, she kissed him. Right on the mouth. Emily had never kissed anyone before. And he'd kissed her back!

Now, standing beneath the oak where they'd made those plans, near where they'd first met, Emily touched her fingertips to her lips and giggled. Her cheeks grew warm. That kiss would be the first of many.

There was a rustle off to the left. Emily squinted. There, in the shadows, she thought she'd seen a figure. When she blinked, the shape was gone. Oh, Charlie, where are you? she thought.

He was very late. Emily bit her lip, nervous now. She fingered the diamond bracelet on her wrist. It was a bracelet Mother had often worn. As a little girl Emily had often played with it as she sat in Mother's lap. It had been in Mother's family for generations, and matched the earbobs now gracing Emily's ears. Another noise made her turn. There was a man standing there, at the edge of the trees.

Emily couldn't see the man's face. All she could make out through the fog and dark was a tall hat and a cape. Then he was gone again. Judging by the crunching of leaves he was coming around behind her. "Charlie?" she asked, her voice shaky. Her heart was beginning to beat uncomfortably hard and fast. Something wasn't right. Before the word was fully out of her mouth, a sharp pain exploded in the back of her head.

Everything went white before slowly coming back into focus. Through the haze of pain she realized she'd been struck with something. Dizzy, Emily stumbled away, trying to escape. She'd only managed a couple of difficult steps when she was jerked backward.

Her assailant had stepped on the train of her dress to stop her. Still Emily struggled, and still he held on. Something on the dress tore. Her skirt had a rip in it nearly from hem to hip. Emily lost her balance and stumbled to one knee, landing hard. Fresh pain filled her head upon impact. There was another ripping sound as her dress tore further. From behind her she could hear the man's labored breathing as he reached for her again.

Through the pain and through the fear Emily managed to scream her best hope out into the forest. When she felt rough hands grasp her upper arms, she screamed, "Charlie!"

But in the time it had taken her to cry out, her attacker had hauled her to her feet, and was restraining her from behind. An arm held her tightly around the middle, squeezing the air from her lungs, squeezing so hard Emily thought she felt sure her ribs would crack. Another hand was clamped over her mouth.

His hand smelled like rosewater.

Even as she recognized the scent, pain as she'd never known exploded in her side. She froze, and then writhed, moaning against the palm clamped over her mouth. A knife. It was a knife. There was a terrible scraping sound as the blade was pulled out again. Its exit caused worse pain than the entry had. A hot, wet pain that radiated from the wound to her entire body.

Weak, Emily slid toward the ground, unable even to try to cry out again when his hand left her mouth. The man loosed his grip and seemed to help ease her to the ground. Emily lay there on her back, fog obscuring her view up into the branches of the oak. Emily was cold. Strangely, she felt the cold more than the pain. The offally smell of her own blood was all around her. The edges of her vision were starting to go dark. When she tried to take a breath, a gush of blood, hot, thick, coppery, filled her throat and mouth. Emily opened her mouth and all that escaped was a gurgle and a trickle of blood.

Above her in the dark and fog, a figure loomed. He didn't speak, but his breath was ragged. Emily blinked slowly. She was so tired. Too tired to even raise her arms in defense when the man reached down and roughly tugged off her necklace. Then her rings. By the time he began working off her bracelet Emily's limbs had gone to ice. Once more she tried to speak. But her brain had gone hazy and dim. She couldn't find words. Another gurgle, more blood trickling from her mouth.

Charlie, she whispered. Or perhaps merely thought. Tired, cold, yet unafraid, Emily closed her eyes.

0—0

When she opened her eyes Emily found herself still lying beneath the oak tree. But something was wrong. Badly wrong. She wasn't on the ground. She was in it, flecked with dark dirt and her bouquet on her chest, as if it had been tossed there. Roots were all about her, poking out here and there in her clumsily dug, uneven, shallow hole.

Emily sat up and looked around. Soil tumbled from her hair. This tree was dead, its bark gone a purple gray. Instead of being at the edge of the cemetery, it was in the middle of a huge expanse of gravestones. Emily looked down at herself. With a gasp she took in the gaping wound in her side. One of her ribs was showing. But it didn't hurt anymore. She was no longer cold. She was simply...there. Not numb, as numb was a feeling. This was unsettling, this lack of any sort of sensation.

Upon further inspection Emily saw that her skin had turned blue. So had her flowers. She wasn't breathing. She didn't need to swallow. She was dead.

Emily sat back heavily, back braced against the dirt. Was this being dead? Where was heaven? Where was her mother? Emily hugged herself tightly. She'd like to see Mother again. More than anything in the world. This wasn't anything like what she thought being dead would be like. For all she'd thought about it, anyway. Death had always been something sad that happened to other people. Emily had never been able to make herself truly believe it would ever happen to her. She didn't want to think about it now.

What about all of her dreams? What about Charlie, who said he loved her and wanted to be with her always? What about her wedding, her home, the children she'd dreamed about? What about her life? She remembered his eyes, that knowing, possessive, flattering look he used to give her. He'd been so passionate, so debonair, so...Emily stopped there.

That hand had smelled like rosewater.

Emily pushed the thought away. She couldn't bear it. She wouldn't think about it anymore. It was a coincidence. Only a coincidence.

"Just a coincidence," she said out loud. Emily hugged her knees, trying to comfort herself. "Lots of men use scent."

"They do," said a voice. "And it tastes awful."

Emily looked all around, startled, before she noticed a little green worm poking its head out of the dirt to her right. He wasn't like any sort of bug she'd ever seen. He had big, weirdly human eyes, thick purple lips, and buck teeth. It was also odd that the worm could talk, but somehow it didn't bother her much. No odder than anything else, really. And it was so nice to hear another voice, to not be alone after the terrible thing that had happened.

"Who are you?" Emily asked. The worm blinked at her, and then, with some difficulty, wriggled his way out of the dirt and fell to the earth beside her with a tiny plop! He inched himself upright and shook the grave dirt off.

"I'm a maggot," said the worm. He sighed. "And I just lost my home. Two graves over. I'd been living in her for ages. Nice little old lady. She went and disintegrated. One minute she was there, the next-poof!"

Emily hated the idea of rotting, of having worms eat her, and said so. The worm just blinked up at her. "You'll have to get used to it," he said, not unkindly.

There was a pause. Emily leaned back and stared up into the branches of the dead oak. Past them was only darkness. Earth, she supposed.

"I'll still sit with you," he said in a tone which suggested he was doing her a favor. He inched his way up her leg, and sat upon her knee. In life, that would have tickled. Emily didn't know whether to giggle or sob.

"My flowers are dead," Emily offered, picking up her bouquet and plucking out the most wilted lily. "Can you eat this?"

"Salads are fine for starters, I guess," said the maggot. He crunched the lily between his big buck teeth.

"Maybe you could give me a lift to the pub?" the maggot asked after swallowing noisily. "There's always someone's ear to chew on there."

"A pub?" Emily asked in return. She'd never been to one before, not ever.

"Piano and everything," the maggot told her.

How dearly Emily would like to play the piano! Her fingers, though unfeeling, fairly itched at the thought. And think of all of the dead people she could see again! Maybe, maybe, her mother would be there, at a table sipping wine like she did when she'd been alive. Emily very nearly began to stand up before she caught herself and stopped to consider.

What if Charlie, poor thing, ended up here? Suppose that horrible man had attacked Charlie, too? She needed to be here to comfort him. Besides, on second thought, she didn't want to face the other dead people just yet. She'd have to explain what had happened. With a blue hand Emily touched the wound in her side. Some people might think it was her own fault. Everyone in her life, except for a select few, probably would have thought so. Oh, what would Captain Wadleigh think, to see her? Mrs. Wadleigh?

"No," she said carefully. Looking at her hand she found it splotched with drying purplish blood. Not wanting to spoil her veil or dress any more than they already were she rubbed her palm on the ground. "I think I'd better stay here. At least for now."

"If you want to sit around and wait for Judgment Day, be my guest," the maggot told her. "Lots of corpses do. But you can at least do it where there's some food and drink and a band. And company."

"There's only one bit of company I want," Emily said miserably. The maggot shrugged as well as a worm without shoulders could, and set in munching on a rose.

"All I wanted was to be a bride," she went on, mostly to herself. "I thought about my wedding day ever since I was little. And I've dreamed of my true love for nearly as long. And now..."

Much to her own surprise, a tear dropped down her face and plopped onto her dress. She'd not felt it. Of course not, being dead. Emily thought the words over and over in an attempt to make them stick. I'm dead. I am dead. A man stabbed me and robbed me. I died. I am dead. Such a terrible, terrible thing to happen to her.

But, oddly, Emily found that she wasn't all that sad or scared about being dead. She was still herself. Existing. In her beautiful dress with her bouquet. She could talk and she could move and she had her memories. Why dwell? The worst was over, after all. What else could happen to her? That thought gave her a definite sense of freedom.

"I'm going to wait here," she decided aloud. The ideas and the conviction behind them came as she spoke. "Real love, true love, waits. Charlie will be back for me. Alive or dead. And we'll get married. Just like he said we would. I won't be in the darkness forever. I'll be a bride."

Emily, much calmer now, smiled down at the maggot. The worm blinked those enormous eyes of his, and then sighed heavily. Shaking his head, he inched onto her outstretched hand. Emily set him on her shoulder, where he curled himself about so that he could sit.

"Whatever you say," Maggot said, mouth still full of dead flowers. Together they sat in silence, there in the shallow grave beneath the dead oak tree, apart from the rest of the land of the dead. Happier sounds came from behind them. Chatter and laughter, music. It was faint, though. Here, it was quiet. Much like the clearings and glens of the forest in the world above, the world Emily had been forcibly removed from. She hadn't been ready to go.

She'd wait for her second chance. No matter how long it took.


End file.
